IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


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33  WIST  MAIN  STRKT 

WIISTIR.N.Y.  14SM 

(7l6)a72-4S03 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


I 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historicai  IVIicroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Noteff  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
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reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


D 
D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pellicul6e 

□    Cover  title  missing/ 
Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  init  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
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II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfiln.i  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


m 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

rr~|    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
ULj    Pages  d6colortes,  tachet^es  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  ddtachdes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materia 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


I      I  Pages  detached/ 

pyl  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 

I      I  Only  edition  available/ 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  dt6  filmdes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


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This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationaie  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
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{.es  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  S'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  ia  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  film6s  en  commen9ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^s  en  commengant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  seion  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — »  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  ie 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposjre  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  11  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


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SONS  AND  DAUGHTERS  OF  TEMPERANCE 


©  3:i^T% 


K  I)  I  T  E  D     n  V 

S.   F.   GARY,  M.  W.  P. 

or   THE   80N8   OF   TEMPKRANCE    OF   NOHTU    AMERICA. 


N  E  W  -  Y  O  R  K : 
PUBLISHED    BY    R.    VANDIEN. 


' 


Entered  uccordinn  t(i  act  of  ('t)iigrt'M,  iu  the  year  IbWJ, 

By  RirMAitn  Vandikn, 

In  the  Clork'B  Office  of  the  District  Court,  of  the  United  Statei, 

for  the  Southern  District  of  New-York 


Btereotyr'*'^  ^'.V  Vincbnt  L.  Dill, 
128  Fulton-street,  N    T. 

C.  A.  Alvord,  Printer,  39  Qold-streot. 


INTRODUCTION. 


». 

states, 


Inspired  wisdom  centuries  ago  declared  "  of  making  many 
hooks  there  is  no  end."  Had  Solomon  spoken  this  in  reference 
to  our  own  nge  it  would  have  hcen  pre-eminently  true,  and  if 
the  present  generation  is  not  growing  in  wisdom  it  cannot  be 
for  the  wunt  of  mental  aliment.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  the 
mind  is  dissipated,  and  the  heart  depraved,  by  being  required 
to  feed  upon  the  worthless  trash  furnished  by  a  prolific  press. 
Even  in  this  bookmaking  age,  a  good  book  is  a  jewel.  A  great 
responsibility  rests  upon  those  who  ofler  food  to  the  immortal 
nature,  for  the  mind  once  taken  captive,  like  the  appetite  of  the 
drunkard,  demands  more  similar  poison  to  appease  depraved 
desire.  Our  design  in  getting  up  this  volume,  is  to  add  to  the 
stock  of  pure  temperance  literature,  to  elevate  in  the  public 
mind,  that  reform  so  full  of  promised  blessings  to  the  present 
and  coming  generations. 

Believing  as  we  do,  that  he  Temperance  Reform  is  one 
of  the  mighty  agencies  to  be  employed  for  the  elevation  of 
man,  the  improvement  of  society,  the  stability  of  free  popular 


p»fl 


I 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


institutions,  and  the  moral  and  religious  renovation  of  a  wicked 
world,  we  avail  ourselves  of  the  press — the  principal  medium 
of  reaching  the  public  mind — to  promote  the  precious  interests, 
and  advance  the  standard  of  this  yod-like  enterprize. 

As  incident  to  our  general  design,  and  to  render  the  work 
more  attractive  and  interesting,  we  have  introduced  faithful 
portraits  and  brief  biographical  sketches  of  a  few  of  the  most 
distinguished  champions  of  our  holy  cause.  There  are  many 
others  perhaps  equally  deserving  a  place  in  our  portrait  gallery  ; 
indeed  all  who  have  labored  devotedly,  zealously,  honestly  and 
perseveringly  in  this  department  of  moral  reform,  should  be 
enrolled  among  the  benefactors  of  their  race — but  the  extent  of 
tliis  work  prescribes  a  limit  to  our  selection. 

The  elevated  character,  and  exalted  reputation  of  the  contrib- 
utors to  this  volume,  will  be  sufficient  to  commend  it  to  the 
attention  of  the  reading  public.  Finally,  whether  our  effort  to 
contribute  a  mite  to  the  pure  literature  of  the  country,  promote 
the  well  being  of  society  and  the  glory  of  God  shall  be  success- 
ful, remains  to  be  seen ;  whatever  may  be  fhe  result,  we  commit 
it  to  the  hands  of  our  countrymen,  with  the  .  ppy  consciousness 
of  being  actuated  by  a  sincere  desire  to  do  good. 

S.  F.  GARY. 


• 


I  wicked 
medium 
interests, 

he  work 
I  faithful 
the  most 
ire  many 
L  gallery ; 
lestly  and 
8hould  be 
extent  of 

le  contrib- 
,  it  to  the 
ur  effort  to 
promote 
)e  success- 
7fe  commit 
isciousness 

GARY. 


M 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL. 


BY 


J.  SARTAIN,  H.  S.  SADD,  &  T.  DONEY. 


S.  F.  CARY,  M.  W.  P Root Frontispiece. 

THE  REST Matteson. .Vignette  Title. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  BOTTLE Matteson 22 

DANIEL  H.  SANDS.P.  M.  W.  P Brady 49 

PHILIP  S.  WHITE,  P.  M.  W.  P Root 74 

THE  DRUNKARD'S  HOML  Matteson 103 

THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME Matteson 129 

F.  A.  FICKARDT,  M    W.  S Root 165 

HON.  E.  DILLAHUNTY,  G.  W.  P Root 180 

LYMAN  BEECHER,  D.  D Cox 204 

REV.  T.  P.  HUNT Root 225 

THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON Mattkson .241 

FATHER  MATTHEW Root 271 

JOHN  W.  OLIVER,      M.  W.  P Brady .292 

HON.  HORACE  GREELY Brady .310 

JOHN  H   W.  HAWKINS Brady .318 


TO 


€^t  |nn0  nf  €tm^tt\iuu, 


THIS     VOLUME 


IB   RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATED, 


BY   THE 


IPUJIBLESEIIEIE. 


f 


CONTENTS. 


THE   RECHABITES MISS    FH(EBE    CARET 11 

RETROSPECT   OF   PAST,  kC PHIUP   S.    WHITE,   P.  M.    W.   P...13 

THE    CONVICT MISS    ALICE  CAREY 18 

STORY   OF  THE    BOTTLE S.    F.    CARY,    M.  W.  P 22 

S.    F.    CARY,   M.  W.  P 29 

BRANDIOPATHT REV.    H.    D.    KITCHEL 32 

THE    VOICE   OF   THE   CHARMER MRS.    EMMA    C    EMBURY 46 

DANIEL    H.   SANDS,  P.  M.  W.  P 49 

THE    RECHABITE'S    VISION REV.    C.    B.    PARSONS 50 

ADULTERATIONS    OF   LIQUORS EDWARD   0.    DELAVAN 56 

CHRISTIAN    PRINCIPLE GEO.    B.    CHKEVER,    D.  D 70 

PHILIP   S.   WHITE,  P.  M.  W.  P 74 

PROEM MISS    PHffiBE    CAREY 77 

THE   CIRCEAN    CUP T.    8.    ARTHUR 79 

THE    drunkard's    HOME MRS.  J.   C.    CAMPBELL 103 

THE  WINE-CUP MRS.    C.  M.    SAWYER 109 

LAKE  SUPERIOR   AND  THE  NORTH-WEST.  .  .HON.    HORACE    GREELEY Ill 

THE    TEMPERANCE    HOME MRS.    E.    J.    EAMES 129 

THE  SPARKLING-BOWL REV.    J.    PIERPONT 141 

THE    LAST   REVEL    OF   BELSHAZZAR REV.   J.   TOWNLEY   CRANE,  M.  A.  143 

FREDERICK    A.  FICKARDT,  M.  W.  S ^ 165 

THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE DR.    F.    A.    FICKARDT,   M.    W.  S..1G0 


X  CONTENTS 

HON.   E.    DILLAHUNTT,  Q.  W.  P 180 

INTEMPKRANCE HON.    E.    DILLAHUNTT,   G-    W.   P. 185 

LOOK    NOT   ON    WINE MRS.    E.    f.    ELLET 202 

LYMAN   BEECHER,  D.  D 204 

APPEAL  TO   LADIES REV.    A.    L.    STONE,   P.  C  W.  P.  .211 

THE  OLD  man's  LAST  WISH MRS.  E.  C.  £MBVRT 222 

REV.  T.   P.   HUNT., 225 

BOME   THOUGHTS  ON   THE   SUBJECT REV.   H.    HASTINGS   WELD 227 

ROSEMARY   HILL MISS   ALICE   CAREY 238 

THE  WIDOW   AND  HER   SON MRS.    L.    H.    SIGOURNEY 241" 

TEMP.    REFORMATION    AND   THE   CHURCH. .REV.   E.   N.  KIRK 265 

FATHER    MATHEW 271 

DASH   THE   WINE-CUP   AWAY W.    H.    BURLEIGH 278 

INCONSISTENCIES   OF  FRIENDS  OF  TEMP DR.    CHARLES    JEWETT 281 

TEMPERANCE   AND    RELIGION REV.    ALBERT   BARNES 284 

JOHN   W.    OLIVER,   M.  W.  P 292 

THE    DUTY   OF   TEMPERANCE   MEN N.  WILSON,  P.  G.  W.  P 301 

THE    SPOILER MRS.   L.   H.   SIGOVRNET 308 

HON.    HORACE    GREELEY 310 

.'OHK    H.    W.   HAWKINS 318 


I 


;  ti 


'•''(. 
^'< 


THE    NATIONAL 


TlllffllPigSaiia®!^   ®[?ifliSa[i!llB 


THE    RECHABITES 


BY    MISS    PH(EBE    CARET. 


They  came  and  brought  the  Rechabites,  wlio  dwelt  in  tents  of 

old, 
To  chambers  decked  with  tapestry,  and  cunning-work  and  gold, 
And  set  before  them  pots  of  wine,  and  cups  that  mantled  high, 
But  when  they  tempted  them  to  drink,  they  answered  fearlessly ; 
And  said,  our  father  Jonadab,  the  son  of  Rechab,  spake, 
Commanding  us  to  drink  no  wine  forever  for  his  sake ; 
And  therefore  we  will  taste  not  of  the  cup  you  bring  us  now. 
For  our  children's  children  to  the  end  shall  keep  our  father's 

vow : 
And  the  Lord  who  heard  the  Rechabites,  and  loves  a  faithful 

heart, 
Pronounced  a  blessing  on  their  tribe  that  never  shall  depart. 


# 


f* 


12 


THE    RECHABITES. 


Thus  wc  will  taste  not  of  the  wine,  and  though  the  streams 

should  dry, 
Yet  the  living  God  who  made  us  will  hear  his  children  cry ; 
For  Moses  smote  the  solid  rock,  and  lo !  a  fountain  smiled, 
And  Hagar  in  the  wilderness  drew  water  for  her  child ; 
And  the  beautiful  and  innocent  of  all  earth's  hving  things 
Drink  nothing  but  the  crystal  wove  that  gushes  from  her  springs; 
The  birds  that  feed  upon  the  hills,  seek  where  the  fountains 

burst. 
And  the  hart  beside  the  water-brooks  stoops  down  to  slake  his 

thirst ; 
The  herb  that  feels  the  summer  rain  on  the  mountain  smiles 

anew, 
And  the  blossoms  with  their  golden  cups  drink  only  of  the  dew. 
And  we  will  drink  the  clear  cold  stream,  and  taste  of  nought 

beside. 
And  He  who  blessed  the  Rechabites,  the  Lord  will  be  our  guide  ! 


i   l 


.-.tjt^ 


M 


RETROSPECT    OF   THE    PAST, 


AND 


slake  bis 
ain  smiles 


our  guide 


CONTEMPLATION    OF   THE   FUTURE 

BY   PHILIP   S.   WHITE,   P.   M.   W.    P. 

It  is  well  to  turn  from  the  busy  scenes  tbat  encircle  us  and 
gaze  out,  at  intervals,  tbrough  tbe  long  vista  of  years,  and  mark 
tbe  changes  and  revolutions  tbat  have  passed  over  tbe  world. 
In  tbe  wbirling  togetber  of  bostile  atoms  amid  tbe  grand  com- 
motion of  elemental  strife,  stirred  by  a  spirit  of  free  inquiry  and 
investigation,  tbe  mists  of  ignorance  and  clouds  of  superstition 
bave  been  dispelled ;  and  tbe  glorious  sun  of  science,  of  knowl- 
edge and  of  virtue,  allowed  to  sbed  bis  warm  and  refreshing  rays 
along  tbe  patb  of  man.  Under  its  benign  influence,  we  bave 
witnessed  crowns  and  tbrones  crumbling  to  asbes;  tbe  servile 
yoke  of  bondage  falling  from  tbe  necks  of  oppressed  millions ; 
and  tbe  going  out  of  false  dogmas  and  opinions  in  religion,  met- 
aphysics and  pbilosopby,  tbat  claimed  authority  from  heaven, 
and  the  high  prerogative  of  tyranizing  over  the  minds,  bodies 
and  consciences  of  men.  As  wave  succeeds  wave  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  great  deep,  so  has  revolution  followed  revolution 
upon  the  boisterous  ocean  of  life;  bringing  up  from  its  depths 
the  whole  mass  of  moral  energies,  which  has  swept  on  with 
mcreasing  force  until  tbe  entire  aspect  of  this  globe  has  been 


14 


RETRO.SPECT    01     THE    PAST. 


\ 


changed — until  its  gloomy  and  extended  wilderness  appears  in 
the  beautiful  garb  of  a  flowery  and  sunny  landscape.  And  not- 
withstanding destruction  has,  at  times,  marked  this  spirit  of  pro- 
gression, yet  froui  the  very  ruins,  from  the  blootl,  the  carnage, 
the  havoc  with  which  they  have  strewn  the  earth — as  from  the 
floods  of  lava  sent  down  by  the  volcanoes  to  deluge  tlie  valleys, 
— has  arisen  a  fertilizing  principle,  to  cover  with  beauty  and 
moral  verdure  the  great  plain  of  human  aflfairs;  until  society, 
which  cannot  fail  to  progress  while  the  noble  principles  of  man 
are  in  motion,  is  carried  up  to  that  sublime  height  on  which  we 
now  stand ;  where  the  light  of  the  accuiiudated  truth,  wisdom 
and  experience  of  sixty  centuries  breaks  in  upon  the  enraptured 
vision. 

Well  may  we  exclaim,  a  new  era  has  dawned  upon  man ! 
Awakening  from  his  long  and  inglorious  sleep  of  centuries,  he 
has  marked,  with  lightning  in  the  heavens,  with  floating  cities 
that  bridge  the  ocean,  with  gorgeous  palaces  upon  the  earth, 
with  the  iron  steeds  of  steam  that  draw  his  triumphal  cars,  his 
certificate  to  a  divinity  of  origin;  and  though  fallen  from  his 
high  estate  is  still  a  splendid  wreck,  and  like  eternal  Rome,  sub- 
lime even  in  ruins !  So  great  has  been  the  improvement  in  his 
moral,  intellectual  and  political  condition — so  miraculous  the 
achievements  wrought  by  the  arts  and  sciences  in  the  promotion 
of  his  physical  and  social  wants,  that  creduhty  itself  can  scarcely 
credit. 

Amid  all  these  convulsions, — these  upheavings  of  mind,  that 
like  a  volcanoe  in  throes,  have  wrecked  some  of  the  mightiest 
fabrics  of  human  creation,  moral  power  has  gained  supremacy 
over  mere  brute  force.  Revolutions  in  governments,  that  change 
the  entire  civil  polity  of  nations;  in  religion,  that  break  down 
idols  at  which  superstition  has  bowed  for  ages ;  and  in  philoso- 
phy, of  opinions  that  had  held  the  force  of  law  for  untold  gen- 


RETROSPECT    OF    THE    PAST. 


15 


ippcars  in 

And  not- 
rit  of  pro- 
a  carnage, 
s  from  the 
lie  valleys, 
jeauty  and 
til  society, 
les  of  man 
I  which  we 
ith,  wisdom 

enraptured 

upon  man! 
enturies,  he 
mating  cities 
^  the  earth, 
lal  cars,  his 
!n  from  his 
Rome,  sub- 
ment  in  his 
aculous  the 
e  promotion 
can  scarcely 

mind,  that 
le  mightiest 

supremacy 
that  change 
)reak  dow^n 

in  philoso- 
untold  gen- 


erations ;  are  now  carried  on  and  concluded  without  violence  or 
bloodshed — without  hushing  the  song  of  the  reapers,  or  stilling 
the  sound  of  busy  machinery.  And  of  all  the  sublime  lights 
have  loomed  out  in  the  moral  horizon,  none  of  modern  date 
have  cast  such  cheering  beams  over  oppressed  and  down-trodden 
man — none  have  done  so  much  for  ameliorating  his  condition — 
for  refining,  advancing  and  elevating  his  intellectual,  moral  and 
social  being,  as  the  reat  Temperance  Reformation  that  is  so 
rapidly  extending  itself  throughout  the  civilized  world — dispel- 
ling torpid  gloom  that  has  so  long  blighted  and  obscured  the 
intellects  of  thousands,  poisoning  the  nobler  emotions  of  their 
natures,  blasting  their  every  prospect  of  earthly  happiness  and 
hope  of  future  bliss.  It  is  this  star  of  Temperance  that  directs 
the  drunkard  to  his  earthly  savior;  and  whose  pure  light,  shin- 
ing through  the  widow's  tears  and  orphan's  sighs,  spans  the  sky 
of  man's  hopes  with  the  rainbow  of  promise.  How  many  hearts 
have  been  gladdened,  how  many  cheeks  have  been  refreshened 
with  joy,  how  many  eyes  of  sorrow  grown  bright,  at  the  coming 
of  the  new  luminary,  over  whose  rising  the  guardian  angels  of 
man's  happiness  shout  jubilee ! 

When  we  look  back  to  what  has  been  accomplished  in  our  own 
country  through  the  efficient  organization  of  that  great  brother- 
hood, the  Sons  of  Temperance,  the  heart  of  the  philanthro- 
pist and  patriot  is  made  to  swell  with  grateful  emotion ;  and  hope, 
like  a  beacon  light  rising  over  the  shattered  wrecks  that  bestrew 
the  bosom  of  a  storm-ridden  ocean,  and  raises  the  prospect  of  a 
speedy  delivery  from  the  maddened  waves  that  have  long  threat- 
ened to  engulph  the  harmony  and  peace  of  society  in  one  com- 
mon vortex  of  hopeless  ruin.  Within  the  brief  period  of  ten 
years  the  great  Temperance  Reformation  has  accomplished 
towards  moral  reformation — more  for  the  amelioration  of  the 
condition  of   down-trodden    humanity — in  our  own    country, 


«>• 


t  • 


16 


RKTROSl'KCT    OK    TIIF,    PAST. 


tlian  in  all  prccnling  time  from  tho  first  orp;anization  of  our 
great  unci  glorious  rt'public.  It  has  siircccded  in  discounte- 
nancing a  false  and  pernicious  eti(|uettc  by  removing  from  the 
sidelxmrd  of  the  fashionable  circle,  the  sparkling  and  deceptive 
temp(alion  to  dissipation.  It  has  succeeded  in  removing  inebriety 
from  high  places.  It  has  succeedi'd  in  arresting  the  downward 
tendency  of  thousands  of  unfortunate  victims  to  hopeless  ruin ; 
and  of  turning  their  footsteps  from  drunkenness  and  vice,  to  mo- 
rality and  religion.  It  has  succecd<'d  in  rekindling  the  pure  fires 
of  love  and  afl'ection  upon  the  desecrated  altars  of  the  domestic 
circle,  and  of  making  home  happy  to  families  long  estranged  by 
blighting  discord.  The  burning  tear  of  despair  luis  been  turned 
into  a  grateful  tribute  of  affection — the  pallid  cheek  recolored 
with  the  bloom  of  youthful  freshness,  and  the  blighted  hopes 
and  anticipations  of  love's  young  dream,  that  had  been  driven 
from  the  heart's  sacred  fane,  like  the  melancholy  dove  from  its 
mateless  nest,  have  been  wooed  back  from  their  long  and  dreary 
banishment,  to  rest  in  quiet  through  the  lapse  of  coming  years. 
The  inHuence  of  this  great  temperance  brotherhood — this  swel- 
ling army  of  practical  philanthropists — is  felt  and  seen  not  only 
along  the  private  walks  of  life,  but  is  telling  upon  the  destiny  of 
a  mighty  nation.  It  is  purging  the  political  arena  of  its  vile 
corruptions — it  is  uncloging  the  wheels  of  science  and  of  learn- 
ing— it  is  building  up  schools,  academies  and  colleges  from  the 
city  to  the  waste  places — it  is  depopulating  our  prisons,  and 
banishing  from  the  land,  the  hangman  and  the  gallows.  As 
Heaven  is  higher  than  earth — as  time  is  oiitmeasured  by  eternity 
— so  do  all  other  schemes  of  human  origin  dwindle  into  insig- 
nificance when  contrasted  with  the  moral  sublimity  of  this  great 
cause. 

Let  us  onward,  then,  in  our  glorious  career  of  freedom — free- 
dom not  only  from  the  shackles  of  political  oppression,  but  social, 


RETROSPECT   OF    THE    FAST. 


17 


morul  freedom — until  man  is  rtulremcd  from  the  dcffradation  of 
ignornnce  und  folly  itiid  crime,  and  attains  tliiit  lofty  eminence 
in  the  scah*  of  being  for  wliicli  lie  was  designed  by  bis  Clod. — 
Being  a  common  cause — the  cause  of  bumanity — wbo  sbouid 
nut  feel  an  interest  in  its  complete  and  fmal  Iriumpb  ?  It  is  a 
contest  between  virtue  and  vice,  bappiness  and  misery,  in  wbicb 
there  k  no  neutral  ground.  Activity  is  the  soul  of  duty.  'I'ben 
on,  brothers,  on!  the  guardian  angel  that  attends  tlu;  virtuous 
and  the  good,  with  her  snow-white  banner  of  "Love,  Purity 
and  Fidelity"  unfurled,  beckons  you  to  the  charge!  If  you  are 
victorious  in  the;  struggle,  no  warrior's  chaplet  may  adorn  your 
brow — no  loud  hosannas  fall  upon  your  ear, — but  that  heartfelt 
joy  and  fullness  of  satisfaction  will  be  yours,  that  all  of  earth's 
wealth,  pageantry  and  power  can  never  purchase.  And  when 
you  fall,  though  your  grave  may  be  unmarked  with  storied  urn 
or  monumental  marble,  and  nought  but  the  rud(«  winds  sound 
your  re(iuiem-dirge,  as  they  moan  through  the  tall  grass  that 
waves  above  you,  the  cheering  light  of  your  meritorious  labors 
will  shed  a  rich  halo  over  your  last  moments; — and  when  the 
laurels  of  the  conquerors  shall  have  faded,  and  the  deeds  of  the 
renowned  are  forgotten,  your  work  of  love  and  kindness  will  bo 
green  in  the  memory  of  the  just  and  treasured  in  the  hearts  of 
the  good. 


^'< 


THE    CONVICT. 

BY    MISS    ALICK    CARET. 

The  first  of  the  SeptciiilxT  eves 
Sunk  its  red  basement  in  the  sea, 

And  like  swart  reapers  l)earing  sheaves 
Dim  shadows  thronged  immensity. 

Then  from  his  ancient  kingdom,  night 
Wooing  the  tender  twihght  came. 

And  from  lier  tent  of  soft  bhie  light, 
Bore  her  away,  a  bride  of  flame. 

Pushing  away  her  golden  hair. 

And  listening  to  the  Autumn's  tread, 

Along  the  hill-tops,  bleak  and  bare, 
Went  Summer,  burying  her  dead. 

The  frolic  winds,  out-lar.ghing  loud, 
Played  with  the  thistle's  silver  beard. 

And  drifting  seaward  like  a  cloud, 
Slowly  the  wild-birds  disappeared. 


THE    CONVICT. 


19 


Upon  a  liill  with  mosses  l)rown, 
1^-ncatli  (lie  l)liu;  roof  of  the  sky. 

As  tlu>  (liiii  (lay  went  sadly  down, 
Stood  uU  the  friend  I  had,  and  I. 

Watching  the  sei-niist  of  the  strand, 
Wave  to  and  fro  in  evening's  breath, 

Like  the  pale  gleaming  of  the  hand, 
That  beckons  from  the  siiorc  of  death. 

Talking  of  days  of  goodness  down — 
Of  sorrow's  great  o'erwhelming  waves ; 

Of  fri(!n(ls  whom  we  had  loved  and  known, 
Now  sleeping  in  their  voiceless  graves. 

And  as  our  thoughts  o'erswept  the  past, 
Like  stars  that  through  the  darkness  move. 

Our  hearts  grew  softer,  and  at  hust 

We  talked  of  friendship,  talked  of  love. 

Then,  as  the  long  and  level  reach 
Back  to  our  homestead  old  we  (rod. 

We  pledged  to  each,  be  true  to  each. 
True  to  our  fellows,  true  to  God. 


Forth  to  life's  conflict  and  its  care. 
Doomed  wert  thou,  0  my  friend,  to  go, 

Leaving  me  only  hope  and  prayer 
To  shelter  my  poor  heart  from  wo. 


20  THE   CONVICT. 

"  A  little  year,  and  we  shall  meet," 
Still  at  my  heart  that  whisper  thrills — 

The  spring-shower  is  not  half  so  sweet, 
Covering  with  violets  all  the  hills. 

Dimly  the  days  sped,  one  hy  one, 
Slowly  the  weeks  and  months  went  round, 

Until  again  Septemher's  sun 

Lighted  the  hill  with  moss  embrowned. 

That  night  we  met,  my  friend  and  I, 
Not  as  the  last  year  saw  us  part. 

He  as  a  convict  doomed  to  die, 
I  with  a  bleeding,  breaking  heart. 

Not  in  our  homestead,  low  and  old, 
Nor  under  evening's  roof  of  stars. 

But  where  the  earth  was  damp  and  cold. 
And  the  light  struggled  through  the  bars. 

Others  might  mock  him,  or  disown 

With  lying  tongue,  my  place  was  there, 

And  as  I  bore  him  to  the  throne 
Upon  the  pleading  arms  of  prayer ; 

He  told  me  how  Temptation's  hand 
Prest  the  red  wine-cup  to  his  lips. 

Leaving  him  powerless  to  withstand 
As  the  storm  leaves  the  sinking  ship. 


irills- 


THE    CONVICT. 

And  how  all  blind  to  evil  then, 
Down  from  the  way  of  hfe  he  trod, 

Sinning  against  his  fellow-men— 
Reviling  the  dear  name  of  God. 


21 


ent  round, 
)wned. 

I, 


At  morn  he  met  a  traitor's  doom, 
I  living  on  from  hope  apart. 

To  plant  the  flowers  about  his  tomb 
That  cannot  blossom  in  my  heart. 


% 


'.  cold, 
he  bars. 


i  there. 


>•; 


up. 


STORY  OF  THE   BOTTLE 


BY    S  .     F  .     C  A  R  Y ,     M  .    W . 


t 


In  the  progress  of  the  Temperance  Reformation  many  scenes 
have  transpired,  which  are  eminently  worthy  of  a  permanent 
record.  The  history  of  this  reform,  if  its  details  could  be  writ- 
ten, would  furnish  a  richer  fund  of  incident  than  all  the  works 
of  fiction  ever  published.  The  many  wonderful  revolutions 
wrought  in  the  family  circle,  the  sudden  changes  from  unmingled 
wretchedness  to  unalloyed  happiness,  from  death  to  life,  from 
the  bondage  of  sin,  to  the  liberty  of  the  sons  of  God,  would 
fill  volumes.  The  cerements  of  the  tomb  have  been  unsealed 
and  intemperance  has  given  up  the  dead. 

Who  has  not  seen  the  poor  inebriate  trembling  upon  the  giddy 
verge  of  a  drunkard's  hell,  taken  from  his  perilous  condition, 
his  feet  planted  on  the  rock  of  ages,  and  a  new  song  put  into 
his  mouth — even  praise  to  God. 

The  writer  has  witnessed  many  scenes  that  would  have  awak 
ened  in  the  most  unfeeling  bosom,  undying  sympathies  for  this 
Heaven-sent  reform.  The  evidences  that  God  is  its  author  and 
friend  are  numerous  and  convincing.  Nothing  but  that  spirit 
that  called  Lazarus  from  the  tomb,  could  re-animate  the  whis 
ky-rotted  carcass  of  an  outcast  drunkard.  Man  may  "  roll 
away  the  stone  "  but  divine  energy  must  cull  the  dead  to  life. 


I 


E. 


n  many  scenes 
f  a  permanent 
)  could  be  writ- 
1  all  the  works 
fill  revolutions 
rom  unminglcd 
li  lo  life,  from 
af  God,  would 
been  unsealed 

ipon  the  giddy 

ous  condition, 

song  put  into 

d  have  awak 
)athies  for  this 
its  author  and 
)ut  that  spirit 
late  the  whis 
n  may  "  roll 
lead  to  life. 


I 


STORY   OF  THE   BOTTLE. 


28 


The  incident  the  writer  imperfectly  attentpts  to  sketch,  occur- 
red in  one  of  the  cities  of  the  West,  during  that  period  when 
the  whole  community  were  excited  by  the  Wusliingtonian 
movement ;  a  movement  which  arrested  thousands,  i  .id  tens  of 
thousands,  who  were  on  their  way  to  the  second  death,  who  are 
now  ripening  for  glory,  honor,  immortahty,  and  eternal  life ;  a 
movement  which  has  fdled  many  desolate  homes  and  hearts 
with  thanksgiving  and  the  voice  of  melody. 

For  nearly  a  week  I  had  been  laboring  day  and  night  in  the 
place  referred  to,  the  houses  were  crowded  to  overflowinjy  and 
near  two  thousand  had  taken  the  pledge.  The  lifting  up  the 
"  brazen  serpent  in  tiie  wilderness  "  in  the  days  of  old,  was  not 
more  potent  to  heal  those  wlio  had  been  bitten,  than  was  the 
pledge  on  this  occasion  to  extract  the  scorpion's  sting. 

"  The  blind  received  their  sight,  the  lame  walked,  the  lepers 
were  cleansed."     It  was  indeed  a  Pentecostal  season. 

Our  last  appointment  was  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  interest  continuing  unabated,  at  that  early  hour  the 
spacious  sanctuary  was  filled.  I  had  been  speaking  but  a  few 
moments  when  I  observed  a  poor  drunkard  seated  on  the  thres- 
hold of  the  door  near  the  place  I  occupied.  Doubtless  for  the 
first  time  in  many  long  years,  he  had  approached  the  Lord's 
house.  He  had  been  worshipping  at  a  difTerent  shrine.  His 
bloated  face,  bloodshed  eyes,  trembling  limbs  and  ragged  gar- 
ments, attested  hov/  fiiithfully  he  had  served  the  God  of  his 
idolatry,  and  how  his  devotions  had  been  rewarded.  These  out- 
ward exhibitions  were  but  the  signals  of  distress  hung  out  by 
the  soul,  the  evidences  of  the  utter  desolation  of  the  inner  man. 
Like  others  who  have  faithfully  served  the  same  cruel  and  inex- 
orable tyrant,  he  had  suffered  persecutions,  stripes  and  imprison- 
ments, his  name  was  cast  out  as  evil,  and  his  family  and  friends 
were  filled  with  loathing  and  disgust  at  his  presence.     All  hope 


24 


STORY   OF  THE  BOTTLE. 


of  his  renouncing  his  allegiance  had  long  since  fled.  The  poor- 
house,  the  prison,  and  the  more  cheerless  hovel,  had  heen  alter- 
nately his  abiding  place.  He  had  drank  the  cup  of  bitterness 
to  its  very  dregs ;  there  was  nothing  left  to  him  of  life  but  the 
power  to  suffer,  and  he  had  experienced  all  of  death  but  the 
quiet  of  the  grave.  Such  was  the  wreck  of  what  once  was  the 
nnage  of  God,  now  marred  and  defaced,  that  had  found  his  way 
to  the  door-stone  of  the  sanctuary, 

A  little  boy  occupying  a  position  near  the  inebriated  wretch, 
discovered  protruding  from  the  pocket  of  his  tattered  coat,  a 
small  green  flask  partly  filled  with  whisky.  The  roguish  little 
fellow  watching  his  opportunity,  slyly  possessed  himself  of  the 
bottle  and  placed  it  in  the  pulpit.  I  held  it  up  before  the  audi- 
ence, and  inquired  who  was  benefited  by  the  manufacture  or 
tiaflic  of  the  accursed  poison  ! 

They  all  recognized  the  owner  of  the  bottle  without  knowing 
how  it  had  found  its  way  into  the  pulpit.  The  people  were 
told  that  they  were  in  partnership  in  the  trade  of  making  pau- 
pers, lunatics,  and  criminals ;  that  a  portion  of  the  profits  derived 
from  the  sale  of  that  pint  of  whisky  was  in  the  city  treasury ; 
that  men  were  authorized  for  the  "public  good,''^  to  fill  the 
bottles  and  the  stomachs  of  drunkards,  and  convert  the  earth 
into  a  lazar  house  and  a  prison. 

While  thus  pursuing  my  remarks  the  owner  missed  his  trea- 
sure, and  lifting  his  maudlin  eyes  recognized  it  in  my  hand. 
However  worthless,  it  wrs  to  him  a  priceless  treasure — for  its 
burning  and  consuming  fires  he  had  sacrificed  health,  strength, 
character  and  reputation,  and  alienated  himself  from  wife  and 
friends,  froui  country  and  God.  Without  hesitation  or  delay 
raising  himself  up,  he  staggered  into  the  house  and  took  his 
position  before  me.  Pointing  to  the  bible,  he  said  :  "  That  book 
declares  you  must  render  unto  Cffisar  the  things  that  are  Cajsar's — 


m 


STORY   OF   THE   BOTTLE. 


25 


•d.  The  poor- 
lad  been  alter- 
ip  of  bitterness 
of  life  but  the 
death  but  the 
t  once  was  the 
found  his  way 

Jiiated  wretch, 
ittered  coat,  a 
e  roguish  little 
himself  of  the 
efore  the  audi- 
(lanufacture  or 

thout  knowing 
people  were 

f  making  pau- 
profits  derived 
city  treasury ; 

rf,"  to  fill  the 

vert  the  earth 

:iissed  his  trea- 
in  my  hand, 
easure — for  its 
alth,  strength, 
from  wife  and 
It  ion  or  delay 
and  took  his 
:  "  That  book 
t  are  Caisar's — 


give  me  my  bottle."     Instantly  handing  him  his  bottle,  I  re 
plied — I  suppose  I  nuist  render  unto  Cte sar  that  which  is  Ctrsar's, 
but  I  beg  you  to  break  that  bottle,  that  you  may  '*  render  unto 
God  the  things  that  are  God's. 

The  appropriateness  of  his  quotation  from  scripture,  the  ludi- 
crousness  of  its  application,  added  to  his  wretched  appearance, 
called  forth  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter.  When  I  quoted  the 
remainder  of  the  passage,  accompanied  with  the  appeal,  the 
change  in  the  emotions  of  the  audience  was  painfully  sudden. 
In  an  instant  silence  reigned,  the  very  throbbings  of  the  heart 
could  almost  be  heard.  I  continued  the  appeal  to  the  wreck  of 
a  man  before  me,  hoping  that  some  cord  had  partially  escaped 
the  consuming  fire  which  might  lie  made  to  vibrate.  His  own 
happiness,  his  relations  to  his  friends,  his  country  and  his  God 
were  all  presented.  His  half  drowned  memory  was  invoked  to 
call  up  the  recollection  of  happier  years,  and  the  cheering  hopes 
and  bright  prospects  which  were  his  in  better  days.  What  had 
blasted  those  hopes,  what  had  cast  a  shadow  over  those  pros- 
pects] What  was  bowing  that  manly  form,  tearing  his  heart 
and  burning  his  brain  ?  What  had  rendered  him  an  alien  and 
an  outcast  ?  Was  it  not  the  demon,  personified  in  the  bottle  he 
held  in  his  trembling  hand  1  Was  he  not  charmed  by  a  serpent 
whose  sting  was  death,  and  whose  poison  was  wrankling  in  his 
veins,  and  consuming  his  very  vitals  1 

He  listened,  and  gave  evidence  that  waning  reason  though 
weak,  was  struggling  with  giant  appetite,  and  who  should  get 
the  victory  was  becoming  a  momentous  question — a  question  of 
life  and  death.  I  bid  him  resol)  e,  tendered  him  the  right  hand 
of  fellowship,  and  the  sympathi"  if  the  good  and  virtuous; 
assured  him  that  others  had  brokcii  the  tyrant's  chain — that  he 
was  a  man  and  brother,  and  had  only  "  fallen  in  the  way  we 
had  in  weakness  trod" — That  his  horizon  new  enveloped  in 


26 


STORY  OF  THE  BOTTLE. 


darkness  miglit  again  be  bright  and  joyous,  and  insJead  of  wan- 
dering lip  and  down  in  the  earth,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none, 
the  lieavens  above  him  as  brass,  and  the  earth  beneath  his  feet 
as  iron,  he  might  find  a  liappy  home,  and  thrice  happy  friends — 

"  For  him  again  the  blazing  hearth  may  burn, 
And  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care, 
The  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return 
And  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share." 


Wi 


I  showed  him  the  patli  of  hfe,  happiness  and  salvation.  While 
I  thus  addressed  him,  the  whole  audience  looked  on  with  breath- 
less anxiety,  to  witness  the  result  of  the  conflict.  At  length  his 
fingers  seemed  one  by  one,  to  be  fastening  as  with  the  grasp 
of  death  upon  his  bottle,  and  with  a  force  almost  superhuman, 
he  dashed  it  to  atoms  upon  the  floor  and  was  free  ! 

The  audience  breathed  again,  and  their  feelings  so  long  pent 
up,  and  accumulating  strength  at  every  succeeding  moment, 
broke  forth  like  an  avalanche.  Shoutings  and  tears  were  ming- 
led— for  "  the  lost  was  found,"  "  the  dead  was  alive  again." 
This  triumph  of  resolution  over  appetite,  and  the  whole  chain 
of  circumstances  leading  to  this  happy  result,  created  feelings 
that  could  not  be  restrained,  and  all  were  deeply  moved. 

About  four  years  subsequent  to  this  occurrence,  it  was  my 
fortune  to  visit  the  same  city,  and  again  addressed  the  people  on 
the  same  fruitful  theme.  After  talking  to  the  multitude  some 
two  hours  they  were  dismissed.  I  had  descended  from  the  pul 
pit,  and  was  waiting  for  the  crowd  to  disperse,  when  a  middle 
aged  lady,  neatly  but  plainly  clad,  came  down  the  aisle  and 
grasped  one  of  my  hands  with  bot.*i  of  her's,  her  whole  frame 
was  convulsed  by  the  strength  of  her  emotions,  but  she  was 
speechless.  The  tears  chased  each  other  down  the  furroAvs  of 
her  cheek,  made  the  deeper  by  misfortune,  her  lips  quivered, 


lyr 


STORY   OF  THE  BOTTLE. 


27 


ni  (1  at  length  she  stanuncred  out,  "  God  bh'ss  you  brother  Gary  ! 
God  bless  you ! ! — God  bless  you.  That  man  who  broke  the 
bottle  when  you  was  here  before  was  my  husband — he  is 
now  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Church  with  me,  and  we  mv. 
going  home  to  Heaven  together. — Morning  and  evening,  \\v, 
remember  you  in  our  prayers — God  bless  you  brother  Cury ! — 
God  bless  you !  " 

The  reader  cannot  imr.gine  my  emotions  at  that  moment.  I 
would  not  have  exchanged  them  for  those  of  Wellington  after 
the  battle  of  Waterloo,  or  of  any  other  conqueror  of  earth.  All 
the  gold  of  California  laid  at  my  feet  would  not  have  aflbrded 
equal  gratification. 

The  fawning  that  wealth  commands,  the  huzzas  of  the  popu- 
lace which  greet  a  political  leader — the  glory  of  the  warrior's 
sword,  may  impart  a  momentary  enjoyment — but  it  is  not  an 
enjoyment  that  descends  into  the  great  deep  of  the  soul.  To 
have  a  home  in  the  heart  of  an  obscure  woman — to  be  borne  on 
the  arms  of  a  strong  faith  bci'ore  the  throne  of  mercy — to  be 
assured  that  God  has  made  us  the  instrument  of  delivering  a 
soul  from  death,  kindling  anew  the  fires  of  affection,  rebuilding 
a  broken-down  family  altar — these  are  stars  in  the  crown  of 
rejoicing  that  never  grow  dim — laurels  that  never  fade — riches 
that  never  perisli. 


J 


' 


S.    F.    CARY,    M.    W.   P. 

(see    frontispiece.) 

Samukl  Fenton  Gary  was  born  in  Cincinnati,  February  18, 
1814.  His  father,  William  Gary,  was  an  early  emigrant  to  the 
north-west  territory  from  the  State  of  Vermont,  and  shared  in 
the  perils  and  privations  incident  to  ihe  first  settlement  of  that, 
then  wild  country.  The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  the  youngest 
of  three  children,  and  passed  his  youth  on  his  father's  farm  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Cincinnati.  In  1831  he  entered  Miami 
University  and  graduated  with  a  numerous  class  in  1835,  sharing 
the  first  honors  of  the  Institution.  Entering  immediately  upon 
the  study  of  the  law  in  his  native  city,  he  received  the  degree 
of  Bachelor  of  Laws  from  the  Cincinnati  College  in  1837,  and 
was  shortly  after  admitted  to  the  bar. 

His  extensive  acquaintance,  and  devotion  to  the  business  of 
his  profession,  soon  secured  l.im  a  large  and  lucrative  practice. 
Few  men  in  the  west  have  entered  upon  their  professional  career 
with  more  brilliant  prospects  of  success.  As  an  advocate  he  had 
few  rivals.  He  was  very  frequently  retained  in  important  crim- 
mal  cases,  and  was  remarkably  successful. 

At  an  early  age  his  sympathies  were  warmly  enlisted  in  the 
cause  of  Temperance,  and  before  he  entered  upon  public  life 
he  had  delivered  numerous  addresses  upon  this  subject.     When 


S.  F.  GARY,  M.  W.  P. 


29 


brought  more  iiuinciliatcly  in  rontnct  with  (lie  world,  and  when 
led  (o  inquire  into  the  causes  of  crime,  he  was  satisfied  that  a 
thorough  change  in  the  social  customs  was  necessary.  He  had 
daily  opportunities  of  knowing  that  intemperance  was  the  great 
central  vice,  the  radiating  point  of  all  crime.  Frequently  was 
he  called  to  speak  upon  the  subject  of  Temperance — and  elo- 
quently did  he  plead  the  cause  of  total  abstinence — when  iLn 
advocates  were  few. 

When  the  Washingtonian  Reform  began  lis  wonderful  career, 
Mr.  Gary  was  one  of  the  fust  to  welcome  it,  and  his  own  spiritual 
strength  being  renewed,  he  lal)ored  with  unusual  earnestness  to 
arouse  the  public  mind  to  the  giant  evil.  His  voice  was  heard, 
not  only  in  his  native  city  and  State,  but  throughout  most  of  the 
western,  middle  and  eastern  states.  Seeking  no  reward,  but  the 
consciousness  of  doing  good,  he  traveled  thousands  of  miles  ami 
induced  multiplied  thousands  to  sign  the  pledge.  In  a  tour 
through  New  England,  in  1845,  he  was  listened  to  by  inuuense 
assemblages  of  people.  A  leading  eastern  journal  of  that  day 
gives  the  following  truthful  sketch  of  his  manner  of  sjieaking, 
and  the  impressions  made : — 

"Mr.  Gary  is  perhaps,  one  of  the  best  orators  of  the  age. 
We  understand  he  was  trained  in  the  legal  profession;  it  is  sulli- 
ciently  evident,  whatever  the  training  of  his  powers  may  have 
been,  that  he  is  a  well  bred  scholar.  All  who  heard  him  were 
either  convinced  of  the  truthfulness  of  his  argument,  or  if 
already  convinced,  felt  within  themselves  an  awakening  of  tlie 
early  interests  that  moved  them  in  the  cause.  He  speaks  like  a 
Greek — with  the  simplicity,  the  cultivated  naturalness,  the  pun- 
gency and  unembarrassed  force  of  the  ancient  orators.  Mr. 
Gary's  eloquence  does  not  consist  in  empty  words,  in  which  tiie 
idea  is  secondary  to  the  language  in  which  it  is  conveyed,  and 
which  is  an  evil  too  common  with  our  professed  scholars  who 


l\0 


S .  F .  C  A  R  Y  ,  M  .  \V.  P  , 


«t1 


speak  in  public:  nor  docs  it  consist  in  inlflk-ctiial  t'xliil)i(ion 
atlone ;  it  seems  to  have  its  source  in  a  warm  lnNirt,  gusliini,''  with 
the  feelin<(s  of  tin;  man,  ami  throi)l)in^r  willi  the  impulses  of  a 
jfospel  faiih.  'I  ntay  be  suspected  of  seeking;  your  uioncy,'  said 
tlie  speaker,  while  endeavoring  to  relieve  the  preju(lic(!s  and 
cavils  of  such  of  his  hearers  as  niii^ht  entertain  ihem,  'I  ask  no 
money — I  have  money  to  spend,  thank  God  in  this  great  cause.' 
'J'he  man  stands  before  the  people  not  only  as  a  mighty  cham- 
pion of  (he  greatest  cause,  perhaps  of  the  age,  but  he  is  worthy 
of  his  calling — distinctly  set  apiut  from  sordid  motives,  worthy 
of  the  fellowship  of  the  good,  and  the  lovers  of  tl;e  unhappy 
class  whose  miseries  he  pities  and  whose  good  he  advocates." 

Mr.  Cary  is  near  six  feet  high,  thick  set,  with  a  large  head 
covered  with  an  imusual  amount  of  very  black  hair,  broad  chest, 
and  short  neck.  He  has  a  large  keen  black  eye — with  a  benev- 
olent expression  of  countenance.  When  by  the  current  of  his 
feelings  he  is  excited,  his  eye  lights  up  with  a  burning  brilliancy, 
and  his  whole  face,  frame  and  every  thing  about  him,  indicate 
with  the  force  of  breathing  thoughts,  and  burning  words,  the 
terrible  stresgth  of  his  own  emotion.  In  1844  Mr.  Cary  was,  by 
the  pressing  necessities  of  the  reforn,  induced  to  abandon  the 
practice  of  his  profession,  which  was  Uipidly  bringing  him  wealth 
and  distinction,  and  devote  his  entire  energies  to  the  cause. — 
Though  not  what  the  world  would  call  rich,  he  had  a  compe- 
tence and  was  therewith  content.  From  that  time  forward  his  la- 
bors have  been  exceedingly  arduous  and  self-sacrificing.  During 
the  year  1848  he  traveled  through  seventeen  states  and  Lower 
Canada,  and  addressed  more  than  300,000  people.  His  voice 
has,  perhaps,  been  heard  by  more  persons  than  any  man  of  his 
age  in  the  Union.  Always  declining  compensation,  his  expen- 
ditures have  been  very  large.  We  doubt  whether  any  one  in 
this  country  has  made  so  great  personal  sacrifices  for  the  cause 


f 


•'i 


1 


S.  F.  GARY.  M.  W.  P 


31 


of  Toiiiporanro  ns  Mr.  Cary.  Fi'ilini,'^  >lic  nrnvssity  of  n  more 
(lioroiij^li  organi/alion  of  (lie  friends  of  (his  reform  than  had 
ln'cn  prcscnicd,  he  haih-d  the  Institution  of  the  Sons  of  '1'km- 
PKKANCK  ns  the  oni*  that  should  j,Mvr  it  slaltihfy  and  success.  He 
was  one  of  tht'  Charter  M<Midiers  of  the  fust  Divisions  in  the 
west.  He  was  eh'cfed  G.  W.  P.  of  Oliio  in  1H4»>,  and  dininf^ 
his  odiciid  year  more  than  three  himdred  Divisions  were  institut- 
ed in  that  Slate,  lie  first  hecame  a  Member  of  ilie  N.  I),  at 
Philadelphia  in  May,  1H47.  In  June,  1848-,  at  Baltimore,  he 
was  installed  as  ihe  OHicial  Head  of  the  Order  in  Xorlh  Amer- 
ica, for  I  wo  years.  The  Journals  of  the  (J.  D.  of  Ohio,  and  of 
llie  N.  I).,  and  his  messaf»'es  to  these  bodies,  show  that  he  is 
devoted  lo  I  be  interests  of  the  Order,  only  because  he  rejjards  its 
j)rof,''ress  as  necessary  to  tlio  extension  and  ])rosperity  of  the  great 
Temperance  Reform. 

For  several  years  he  edited,  gratuitously,  the  first  and  most 
prominent  Temperance  paper  in  the  west.  He  has  also  written 
several  tracts  which  Iiave  had  a  very  wide  circulation.  Mr. 
Cary  has  been  quite  prominent  as  a  political  speaker,  but  for 
several  years  has  felt  that  the  Temperance  Reform  should  com- 
mand his  entire  energies,  believing  that  in  this  way  he  night 
render  his  country  and  his  race  more  essential  service.  He  was 
honored  with  the  appointment  of  Paymaster  General  of  Ohio 
for  the  term  of  four  years. 

He  was  married  in  183G,  and  during  the  same  year  connected 
himself  with  the  Presbyterian  Church,  of  which  he  has  since 
been  a  proniinent  member.  His  marriage  relation  was  broken 
by  the  death  of  his  companion — and,  he  subsequently  married 


again. 


Such  is  a  brief  and  imperfect  sketch  of  one  of  the  lenders  of 
the  great  Temperance  Army. 


BRANDIOPATHY: 


\ 


OR 

"JUST  A   LITTLE    FOR   MEDI C INL'." 

BY     REV.     H.    D.   KITCHEL. 

Pathology  should  of  right  be  the  science  of  the  Pathies,  an 
ology  concerning  itself  with  all  these  various  systems  of  medica- 
tion, one-sided  and  hobbyhorsical,  in  which  the  genius  of  a  suf- 
fering and  experimenting  race  is  feeling  yet,  age  after  age,  after 
some  Art  of  Healing.  It  is  a  branch  of  science  yet  in  its  in- 
fancy, but  promises  in  some  future  years  of  discretion  to  become 
one  of  the  most  comprehensive  and  rich.  Meantime  Ave  are 
yet  proving  all  things,  and  enduring  all  thing?  and  inductively 
gathering  up  the  materials  for  a  great  conclusion.  From  all 
these  pathies  and  all  this  experimenting,  we  trust  there  will 
come  forth  in  the  end  a  Theory  and  Practice  of  greater  breadth 
and  perfcctness  than  the  world  has  yet  seen.  Then  shall  no 
quackery  be,  regular  or  irregular.  Then  will  our  grandchildren 
be  cured.  Let  us  in  these  afflicted  middle  ages  rejoice  in  the 
hope  which  thus  glimmers  in  the  future,  and  count  it  a  comfort, 
as  we  perish  of  our  Allopathy  or  HomoDopathy,  Hydropathy, 
Tiobeliapathy,  and  the  rest,  that  at  least  we  are  useful  subjects, 
dying  for  the  admonition  and  instruction  of  generations  to  come. 


BRANDIOPATIIY. 


33 


l;.'' 


le  Pathies,  an 
ms  of  medica- 
enius  of  a  suf- 
ifter  age,  after 
yet  in  its  in- 
ion  to  become 
Intime  we  are 
d  inductively 
|n.     From   all 
list  there   will 
Ireater  breadth 
hen  shall  no 
grandchildren 
rejoice  in  the 
t  it  a  comfort, 
Hydropathy, 
useful  subjects, 
tions  to  come. 


Among  these  pathies,  or  one-eyed  systems  of  medication, 
there  is  one,  which,  without  a  name,  and  under  some  variety  of 
form,  has  long  held  a  high  degree  of  popularity.  It  has  been 
content  without  a  name.  Any  pertinent  name  woukl  have 
proved  only  a  burdensome  appendage,  provoking  considerations 
and  suspicions  altogether  inconvenient.  If  only  it  might  win 
quiet  and  general  acceptance — if  it  might  silenllv  penetrate  all 
prevalent  systems  of  medicine,  and  reduce  theui  to  so  many 
agencies  of  its  own — why  should  it  fondly  court  a  name?  It 
has  been  too  wise  for  that — too  wise  to  adopt  the  attitude  of 
belligerent  exclusiveness.  It  has  chosen  rather  to  place  itself  in 
relations  of  friendly  alliance  with  other  systems,  and  take  tribute 
of  them  all. 

Of  the  luany  delusions  whicli  Strong  Drink  lias  fastened  on 
men,  one  of  the  most  mishievous  is  found  in  the  persuasion  that, 
:n  one  form  of  it  or  another,  it  is  specially  adapted  to  the  pre- 
vention or  healing  of  all  manner  of  disease.  On  this  notion  it 
has  wrought  itself  essentially  into  almost  the  whole  materia  of 
medicine.  It  has  established  itself,  well-nigh,  as  the  universal 
solvent,  and  vehicle,  and  conservative  element  in  pharmacy. — 
This,  indeed,  though  it  gives  it  a  vast  advantage,  is  not  the  point 
of  chief  complaint.  It  has  far  more  dangerous  pretentions.  It 
has  come  to  be,  in  ih?  vulgar  estimation,  the  preventive,  the 
alleviative,  or  the  cure,  of  every  malady  that  has  a  n;uue,  and 
of  a  thousand  maladies  that  have  no  name,  among  men.  And 
on  the  broad  current  of  this  persuasion  the  world  delights.  For 
what  disease,  what  weakness,  or  ache,  or  ill,  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 
is  not  some  form  of  Alcohol  deemed  and  euiployed  by  thousands 
as  the  sovereignest  thing  in  nature 7  Gather  a  jury  of  nurses 
over  the  cradle  of  an  ailing  infant,  or  around  the  sick  of  what- 
ever age,  and  listen  to  their  prescriptions,  iheir  all-healing  con- 
coctions, teas,  syrups,  infusions — no  matter  what  else,  ont   thing 


I 


34 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


has  a  place  in  tliein  all,  the  very  soul  of  them,  "  Jest  a  drop  o' 

the  best  sort  o'  real  old  giniwine ."     It  is  the  universal 

sanative.  Calomel  has  not  so  many  uses,  nor  Sarsaparilla.  I 
would  rather  have  a  patent  on  Alcohol  a«!  a  medicine  than  on  all 
the  nostrums  extant.     It  is  the  medicine  of  the  age. 

Now  it  is  not  needful  to  specify  here  what  of  all  this  is  utterly 
delusivn  and  mischievous,  and  what  little  may,  by  possibility 
with  great  care,  have  good  uses.  We  are  little  better  than  sheer 
infidels,  we  frankly  confess,  as  to  the  use  or  need  of  Alcohol  in 
medicine;  while  Ave  are  wholly  and  intensely  convinced  that 
the  vulgar  employment  of  it  as  a  remedial  agent  is  breeding  and 
aggravating  tUsease,  obstructing  the  oiTorts  of  genuine  medical 
skill,  and  secretly  fostering  Intemperance,  beyond  any  other 
cause  that  can  be  named. 

Brandiopathy — let  it  have  a  name !  This  is  the  form  of  the 
system  to  which  circumstances  have  of  late  given  special  cur- 
rency. For  if  the  Cholera  has  slain  its  thousands  directly,  it 
would  be  found,  if  the  whole  range  of  causes  and  influences 
could  be  compassed,  that  it  has  slain  its  ten  thousands  by  the 
vulgar  use  of  brandy  as  a  preventive  and  remedy.  At  the 
rumored  approach  of  that  disease,  recourse  is  every  where  had 
among  large  classes  to  the  Brandiopathic  treatment — and  thus 
the  way  of  the  pestilence  is  paved,  its  victims  made  ready,  its 
work  half-wrought  to  its  hand. 

The  following  narrative  may  serve  to  present,  in  a  very  limited 
measure,  the  working  of  this  system.  For  the  comfort  of  any 
who  desire  to  feel  that  it  is  only  fiction  tbey  are  reading,  it  may 
be  proper  to  state  that  the  follov/ing  is  as  ficticious  as  the  facts 
in  the  case  would  allow,  and  we  regret,  more  than  they,  that  it 
is  not  wholly  an  idle  tale. 

In  the  summer  of  1849,  while  the  Cholera  was  hovering  over 
all  our  cities,  and  raging  here  and  there  in  its  fury,  we  took  our 


•t. 


M 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


35 


roiitp  toward  the  upper  Lakes,  assured  that  if  health  had  any- 
where a  local  habitation,  its  home  would  be  in  the  cool  exhila- 
rating air,  and  amid  the  beautiful  scenery  of  these  inland  seas. 
It  was  with  a  feeling  of  indescribable  relief  that  we  exchanged 
the  funeral  atmosphere  of  crowded  and  death-stricken  cities,  for 
Lie  free  breezes  that  here  swept  so  freshly  aroimd  us  from  the 
cool  north.  There  was  life  in  the  clear  air,  and  every  wave  that 
washed  our  steamer  seemed  to  utter  assurances  of  safety.  Here, 
at  least,  the  pestilence  has  no  place.  It  may  riot  in  the  close 
alleys  of  the  town,  and  claim  for  its  foredoomed  victims  the  chil- 
dren of  squalid  want  and  vice — but  here,  surely,  it  may  not  come ! 
We  were  some  three  hours  out  of  port  from  one  of  those 
thriving  cities  that  are  spiinging  into  full-grov/n  life  along  the 
Lakes,  but  which  shall  be  nameless  here,  lest  this  should  be 
found  "an  over  true  tale."  A  few  cases  of  the  dreaded  epi- 
demic had  occui  ed  witliin  it,  of  a  dubious  and  occasional  char- 
acter, creating  wide  alarm,  indeed,  but  threatening  real  danger 
only  to  those  w^iose  excesses  should  invite  the  blow.  We  were 
just  beginning  to  rest  in  the  fond  hope  that  we  had  left  the 
destroyer  behind  us,  when  a  sudden  conuuotion  was  observed 
below,  and  a  hurried  inquiry  ran  along  the  cabin  for  any  physi- 
cian who  might  chance  to  be  among  the  passengers.  It  was  t^  e 
ciiolera!  The  mate  was  seized  with  it — was  already  nearly  in- 
sensible. As  one,  somewhat  converse' nt  with  the  disease,  Ave 
gained  admission  to  the  sufferer.  An  insufferable  odor  of  brandy, 
qualified  with  laudanum,  revealed  ai  once  the  treatment  and  the 
obvious  cause  of  the  disease.  For  weeks  he  I.  id  drenched  him- 
self with  the  popidar  preventive.  For  weeks  he  had  cured 
liimself  daily  with  the  same  palatable  remedy.  He  had  at  last 
cured  himself  into  it!  And  still  as  he  lay  writhing  under  the 
horrid  malady,  almost  every  voice  was  loudly  urging  a  further 
resort  to  brandy  as  the  only  hope. 


36 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


i 


• 


Sickened  and  protesting  in  vain  against  this  infatuated  course, 
we  left  the  dying  man  and  sought  the  open  air.  Aheady  the 
hoat  was  put  ahout,  and  we  were  en  the  return.  And  now  tlic 
panic  was  visihle  in  every  countenance.  Passings  the  har,  we 
found  it  thronged  with  apphcants  for  the  grand  preventive!  Pre- 
monitory symptoms  were  spreading,  and  many  were  earnestly 
setting  forth  the  virtues  of  the  popular  specific. 

All  th's  was  not  new,  for  it  had  heen  our  lot  to  observe  the 
effects  of  this  very  method  before.  Just  this  we  had  witnessed 
on  a  wider  scuic  a  little  before,  when  Fear  and  Drink  and  the 
Plague  stalked  abreast  through  one  of  our  fairest  western  cities, 
and  turned  it  into  a  field  of  graves.  There  too,  from  the  first, 
l)randy  had  been  the  reliance.  High  names  in  the  profession, 
it  was  said,  had  reconmiended  it — ;just  a  little,  in  certain  cases, 
at  certain  stages — but,  alas !  all  limitations,  all  cautions  were  for- 
gotten, and  brandy,  first,  midst  and  last,  was  the  general  resort. 
There  was  at  once  a  visibly  increased  use  of  that  article  among 
all  classes.  The  intemperate  welcomed  the  prescription,  and 
sought  safety  in  redoubled  excesses.  The  moderates  added  a 
little  to  their  little.  The  occasionalists  lapsed  into  habituals.  To 
all  these  a  littl  vas  simply  a  little  more.  Not  a  few  of  the 
abstinents  found  the  current  too  strong  for  them,  and  took  just  a 
little  for  their  often  infirmities.  A  few  stood  firm  amid  the 
phrens)^,  and  won  again  the  reproach  of  ultraism  and  illiberality. 

And  of  all  this  the  consequences  were  just  what  might  have 
been  predicted.  For  one  case  benefited,  hundreds  were  injured. 
Aside  from  all  ulterior  effects  in  breeding  a  depraved  and  ruinous 
appetite  for  drink,  and  in  sowing  widely  the  seeds  of  shame  and 
misery  to  ripen  in  years  to  come,  the  direct  and  inmiediafe 
result  was  to  produce  derangement  and  morbid  excitement,  and 
throw  open  the  door  for  the  very  disease  they  were  dreading. 

Among  the  passengers  there  was  one,  who  upon  the  first  cas- 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


37 


mil  notice  had  nttractt'd  our  attention.  An  indefinable  soine- 
Avliat  hung  about  him  wliich  we  could  not  solve.  He  was  one 
of  those  moral  half-breeds  in  society  who  have  not  yet  found 
their  level,  originally  of  the  virtuous,  but  tending  strongly  down- 
ward under  the  dominion  of  evil  appetites.  Shabbily  g(>nl(>el, 
still  looking  up  toward  some  sphere  of  worth  and  respect  in 
which  he  had  once  moved,  and  yet  drawn  downward  irresisti- 
bly toward  his  own  place,  he  seemed  hovering  yet  between  the 
evil  and  the  good,  lost  to  all  but  weak  wishes  and  vain  regrets. 
Again  and  again,  as  he  passed,  he  awoke  in  us  the  sentiment  of 
a  something  long  since  known,  but  changed  and  lost. 

This  man  was  found  the  nearest  approach  to  a  physician  on 
board,  and  had  figured  largely  in  the  scene  that  had  just  Iran- 
spired.  Brand}'^  was  the  head  and  front  of  his  practice.  Him 
too  we  had  seen  practising  at  the  bar,  in  a  style  that  left  no 
room  to  question  his  faith  in  the  remedy  he  prescribed.  We 
were  little  over  half-way  back  to  port,  when,  almost  in  the  same 
breath,  the  mate  was  reported  as  dead,  and  Dr.  Lewis  as  seized 
with  the  same  disease. 

Lewis  !  Aye,  that  is  it,  then !  The  mystery  dissolved  in  an 
instant  at  that  name.  And  this  was  James  Lewis !  This  was 
the  miserable  remnant  of  that  noble  one !  And  now,  as  he  lay 
stretched  in  stupor  before  us,  his  sunken  and  haggard  f(\ntur(>s 
revealed,  far  more  distinctly  than  before,  the  familiar  look  of  the 
early  and  most  intimate  friend  of  my  j'outh.  Amid  the  rigid 
lines  now  reappeared  more  clearly  what  he  once  had  been,  as 
the  features  of  the  dead  often  resume  the  expression  of  a  lono-- 
past  and  better  time.  As  yet  his  history  for  the  last  fifte(>n  years 
was  a  sealed  book,  save  as  it  told  itself  in  his  changed  and  fallen 
air,  and  gave  assurance  that  it  huiI  been  a  hisiory  of  weakness 
and  sorrow. 

Plied  to  her  utmost,  our  boat  soon  lay  at  the  wharf.     The 


38 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


!       i 


insensible  man  was  imniediately  conveyed  to  the  hospital,  and 
the  best  attendance  secured.  The  appHcation  of  extreme  exci- 
tants finally  awoke  the  renmant  of  life,  aiid  inspired,  for  a  time, 
a  hope  that  he  might  be  saved. 

At  an  interval  of  exertion  we  approached  the  attending-  phy- 
sician, and  inquired  if  this  were  not  an  unusual  aspect  of  the 
disease  ] 

"  The  case  is  not  unconnnon,"  he  replied ;  "  but  which  of  his 
diseases  do  you  refer  to  ?  " 

"  Tiie  Cholera,  of  course — what  else  could  this  be  7  " 

"  There  is  Cholera  in  it,  indeed,"  was  his  reply,  "  and  that 
will  doubtless  decide  the  business  ^  but  as  yet  it  is  the  least  of  his 
diseases.  Fright  and  brandy  have  ailed  hiin,  and  his  struggle  is 
still  mainly  with  these  and  their  eifects." 

"  Then  he  can  be  saved  1 " 

"  That  is  very  unlikely.  He  has  yet  two  other  enemies  to 
(/ontend  with.  He  will  pass  from  this  torpor  into  a  state  of 
uncontrolable  nervous  agitation,  substantially  a  delirium  tremens 
— and  what  remains  the  Cholera  will  finish.  Such  cases  are  of 
frequent  occurrence,  and  leave  scarce  a  ray  of    ope." 

"  But  this  is  not  mere  intoxication,  we  continued,  anxious  to 
gather  the  views  of  one  who  evidently  penetrated  the  whole 


jj 


case. 

"  Not  that  merely.  The  matter  is  complicated.  He  was 
alarmed,  and  in  his  agitat'on  poured  down  brandy.  This  had 
an  effect  wholly  different  from  that  which  it  commonly  pro- 
duces. The  sentiment  of  fear,  like  any  other  strong  emotion  or 
any  acute  disease,  overmastered  the  stimulus,  and  disarmed  it  of 
its  intoxicating  effect,  and  turned  it  into  a  simple  auxiliary.  Its 
whole  force  was  spent  on  the  excited  nervous  system,  and  drove 
it  rapidly  through  phrensy  into  exhaustion  and  stupefiiction. 
We  shall  probably  arouse  him  from  this  state — though   I  can 


f 


;i 


BRANDIOPATHY. 


39 


scarcely  jusfify  it  to  luyself  to  be  the  instrument  of  waking  him 
(0  endure  the  torments  of  the  next  liour." 

We  led  him  to  speak  of  the  popular  preventive. 

"Brandy,"  sa'd  he,  "is  more  fatal  among  us  than  any  dis- 
ease. The  approach  of  the  Cholera  has,  in  elfect,  elevated  all 
our  (Iram-houses  into  apothecary  shops.  Brandy  is  profusely 
used,  and  in  connection  with  the  panic  produce's  a  nniltitude  of 
cases  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  Cholera.  In  other  cases 
it  breaks  down  every  defence,  and  throws  wide  open  the  door 
for  the  entrance  of  that  disease.  Already  fitted  by  past  dissipa- 
tion to  be  the  first  victims  of  the  pestilence,  tiie  lovers  of  drink 
fly  at  once  to  their  enemy  for  succor.  Thousands  go  thus  satu- 
rated with  drink,  on  the  verge  of  mania  a  potu,  and  fall  an  easy 
prey  to  the  choleric  influence.  They  are  not  exhilarated,  not 
inebriated  l)y  their  draughts — intense  nervous  excitement  super- 
cedes that  effect — repeated  and  augmented  doses  fail  to  elevate 
and  cheer  them,  and  serve  only  to  push  them  down  the  declivity 
of  sinking  nature  into  just  the  condition  of  this  wretched  man. 
Violent  measures  will  awake  them  from  this,  but  only  to  pass 
them  forward  into  a  scene  of  reactive  agony,  the  more  intense 
for  every  drop  of  stimulus  in  the  previous  treatment.  Delirium 
ensues,  the  exhausted  system  falls  into  the  collapse  of  Cholera, 
and  is  relieved  by  death.  Did  not  others  require  it,  I  would 
never  attempt  to  recover  such  cases  from  the  easier  death  Avhich 
the  sinking  stage  presents." 

The  room  was  now  resounding  with  the  shrieks  of  the  sufT*.rer. 
Nature  was  at  length  fully  aroused,  and  the  reaction  was  terrible. 
The  moment  his  eye  fell  on  us  as  we  entered,  he  sprang  from 
the  grasp  of  his  attendants,  and  shrieking  our  name  cowered  in 
an  agony  of  fright  in  the  corner  of  his  bed.  He  hid  his  face 
for  a  time  with  every  demonstration  of  terror,  then  started  up 
and  struck  around  him  wildly,  as  if  encompassed  with  unseen 


40 


BRANDIOPATH  Y. 


assailants ;  and  ever  as  his  eye  rested  on  ns,  lie  recoiled  again 
as  if  transfixed  at  the  sight.  At  intervals  he  would  sink  down 
exhausted,  and  rave  in  confused  nuitterings  of  distress.  It  was 
plain  that  he  recognized  us ;  and  what  to  all  others  was  inco- 
herent and  unmeaning,  to  our  ear  revealed  the  reminiscences  of 
long-past  scenes,  that  were  crowding  now,  at  the  hint  of  an  old 
familiar  look,  on  his  distracted  spirit.  All  scenes  of  peril  and 
fear  through  which  he  had  ever  passed,  he  was  passing  through 
again — many  in  which  we  had  home  a  share.  Again  he  fell 
from  the  clifF  we  had  climbed  together  in  boyhood,  and  he  was 
taken  up  nmngled  and  senseless.  Again  we  bathed  in  the 
stream  of  our  native  valley,  and  he  was  swept  out  into  its  cur- 
rent and  borne  down,  to  be  dragged  out  at  the  last  moment  of 
recoverable  life.  He  shrieked  our  name  again,  as  in  that  very 
scene  when  we  strove  in  vain  to  reach  him  as  he  drifted  past. 
At  moments  of  less  distraction,  the  recollections  or  happier 
scenes  seemed  floating  over  his  soul,  but  they  lapsed  speedily 
into  others  which  we  could  not  recognize,  of  apparently  later 
date  and  of  a  more  mournful  character. 

A  few  hours  after  he  was  borne  to  the  hospital,  a  care-worn 
and  sorrowful  woman  with  her  daughter  of  some  sixteen  }'ears, 
plainly  but  neatly  clad,  approached  the  scene.  They  were  the 
wife  and  child  of  Lewis.  Their  meeting  was  full  of  inexpres- 
sible wo,  and  plunged  the  unhappy  man  into  the  extreme  of 
wild  agitation.  Collapse  soon  ensued,  and  at  the  end  of  another 
hour  he  was  dead. 

When  all  was  over,  and  the  smitten  wife  and  daughter  had 
recovered  from  the  first  gush  of  grief,  we  approached  and  ofii'r- 
ed,  as  a  stranger,  the  sympa  ny  and  aid  which  they  evidently 
needed.  The  changes  of  fifteen  eventful  years  had  eflTectually 
veiled  us  from  their  recollection ;  and  ii  as  only  by  rare  and 
shadowy  traces  that  we  could  recall,  in  the  faded  form  before 


I 


BRANDIOPATIIY. 


41 


us,  the  gay  and  beautiful  Elt'anor  Williams,  who  eighteen  years 
before  became  the  bride  of  James  Lewis.  Wc  forbore  to  add  to 
her  distress  by  revealing,  as  yet,  that  one  who  had  known  her 
in  better  days  was  now  a  witness  of  her  fallen  and  desolate 
state.  It  was  evident  that  extreme  want  had  become  familiar 
to  the  family ;  and  we  shuddered  to  think  by  what  bitter  steps 
the  descent  had  been  eflected  from  what  they  once  were,  to 
what  now  appeared. 

Hastily  and  with  little  observance,  the  body  of  our  early 
friend  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  city  burial-place,  among  the  fresh 
mounds  that  began  to  attest  the  work  of  the  pestilence.  At  our 
pressing  instance  some  decent  rites  were  not  omitted ;  a  prayer 
was  breathed  over  the  decently  coffined  dead,  and  the  broken- 
hearted wife  rejoiced  in  the  plain  marble  which  might  serve 
hereafter  to  guide  her  to  her  husband's  grave. 

When  all  was  done,  we  easily  gained  permission  to  serve 
them  still  further.  Their  residence  was  nearly  seven  miles  out 
from  the  city,  in  a  thinly  populated  district,  still  wearing,  the  air 
of  a  new  settlement.  The  first  generation  of  rude  log-built 
dwellings  had  not  passed  away.  It  was  one  of  tlie  most  fertile 
spots  on  earth,  and  yet  poverty  and  decay  were  written  on  every 
door.  Narrow  patches  of  wheat  were  here  and  there  already 
nodding  their  yellow  heads  heavily  in  the  breeze,  attesting  what 
the  hand  of  diligence  might  have  won  from  so  willing  a  soil. 

To  one  of  the  least  inviting  of  these  miserable  abodes  we 
accompanied  Eleanor  Lewis  and  her  only  child.  As  we  bent 
beneath  the  low  entrance,  and  read  at  a  glance  the  utter  desti- 
tution of  the  whole  scene  within,  our  thoughts  turned  back 
involuntarily  to  the  home  that  was  once  hers,  in  rural  wealth, 
and  peace,  and  love,  on  one  of  the  sweetest  hill-sides  of  New- 
England.  She  sunk  on  the  fragment  of  a  chair,  and  the  full 
tide  of  anguish  seemed  now  for  the  first  time  to  roll  over  her 


42 


r.  R  A  N  D  I  0  P  A  T 11  Y  , 


soul.  Mollior  and  child  wept  in  unrestrained  agony  of  wo. 
Believing  llie  time  had  come,  when  the  recognition  of  an  early 
friend  would  j)rove  a  solace,  or  at  lejust  serve;  to  divert  a  sorrow 
that  was  tjo  crushing  to  he  endured,  we  ventured  to  pronounce 
her  maiden  name.  She  started,  as  if  the  voice  of  the  dead  had 
fallen  on  her  ear.  Something  too  in  tiie  lone  had  stirred  the 
slumhering  memory,  and  as  she  gazed  on  us  she  seemed  as  one 
struggling,  innvildered  through  mists  and  darkness  hack  toward 
the  dim  light  of  other  days.  Through  the  tangled  n.aze  of 
present  grief,  and  through  long  sad  years  of  sull'ering,  she  ap- 
peared to  trace  her  way  painfully  hack  to  the  far  past,  to  the 
scenes  and  the  days  when  that  name  was  familiar.  The  mys- 
tery at  length  cleared  away,  and  the  full  light  of  recognition 
beamed  in  her  eye. 

It  Mas  with  a  painful  interest  that  we  gathered  up  from  one 
source  and  another,  the  history  of  this  family.  We  lay  it  before 
our  readers  as  the  history  of  one,  the  discovered  mystery  of  ruin 
in  one  small  circle.  It  is  the  history  of  many.  All  through  the 
West,  in  city  and  in  country,  such  instances  abound.  In  high 
places  and  low,  through  all  classes  of  western  society,  may  be 
found  those  who  once  stood  with  the  foremost  in  their  profession 
and  practice  of  temperance,  now  heartless,  recreant,  lightly 
toying  with  principles  the)"^  once  held  dear,  many  of  them  ridi- 
culing and  denouncing  the  whoh;  theory  of  abstinence  as  vain 
and  impracticable.  Under  ten  degress  of  more  Puritanic  skies 
they  once  shone  in  the  ranks  of  the  pledged  and  faithful.  While 
many  of  these  still  retain  some  damaged  relics  of  their  former 
convictions  and  practice,  others,  scattered  through  the  forests 
and  over  the  prairies,  and  struggling  with  the  difficulties  and 
diseases  of  a  new  home,  have  fallen  utterly  and  forever.  And 
if  a  considerate  search  were  made  into  the  notions  and  influences 
that  have  led  to  this  result,  one  of  the  chief  would  be  found  in 


I 


VtH. 


BRANDIOPATIIY, 


43 


itiy  of  Nvo. 
uf  an  early 
>rt  a  sorrow 

pi(tnouiico 
ic  (It'iul  liad 

stirred  tiie 
•nied  as  one 
Dack  toward 
?d  n.a/.e  of 
ing,  she  ap- 
past,  to  (he 
The  mys- 
[  recognition 

up  from  one 
hiy  it  before 
stery  of  ruin 
thro\igh  the 
lid.     In  high 
iety,  may  be 
c'ir  profession 
cant,  lightly 
of  them  ridi- 
icnce  as  vain 
uritanic  skies 
hful.    While 

their  former 
h  the  forests 

fficulties  and 
forever.     And 

nd  induences 

d  be  foimd  in 


the  so  common  use,  and  insidioic  circct  of  alcoholic  medicines. 
They  are,  to  an  extent  1  'yond  all  that  has  ever  l)een  conceived, 
the  victims  of  that  popular  and  seductive  delusion,  which  wouhl 
th:  1st  on  every  ailing  child  of  Adam,  some  forjn  of  strong  drink 
as  a  remedy  of  unfailing  virtn(>. 

James  Lewis  was  the  model  youth  of  his  native  town.  Sober, 
industrious,  enterprizing,  few  gave  such  promise  of  worth  in 
maturer  years  as  he.  A  vein  of  Yankee;  omnificcnce  ran 
broadly  across  his  nature,  and  blending  gracefully  with  his 
weightier  qualities  marked  him  f(jr  a  prevalent  and  successful 
man.  Few  stood  on  so  broad  a  basis  of  character,  or  seemed  so 
well  fortified  against  temptation.  And  as  he  stood  forth  firndy 
and  prominently  as  a  leader  of  his  young  associates  in  the  cause 
of  temperance,  it  would  have  been  dillicult  to  imagine  that  the 
spoiler  could  ever  reach  him. 

At  an  early  age  he  won  the  heart  and  hand  of  Eleanor  Wil- 
liams. A  few  bright  and  happy  years  they  lingered  in  the  old 
home  of  their  youth.  But  the  story  of  the  West,  of  its  broad 
rich  prairies,  its  ocean  wheat-fields  and  forests  of  corn,  was  then 
rife  on  all  tongues,  and  found  a  ready  reception  with  young 
Lewis.  Soon  with  wife  and  child  he  fell  into  the  current  and 
floated  westward,  leaving  the  old  homestead  in  more  contented 
hands. 

They  were  soon  floating  on  the  canal.  Here  commenced 
the  insidious  process  of  depravation  and  ultimate  ruin.  The 
damp,  chill  night-air — the  morning  fogs — the  unwholesome  and 
unpalatable  water,  as  they  crept  slowl}-  through  the  long  levels 
of  central  and  western  New  York — what  should  shield  them 
from  these  pestiferous  influences'?  The  remedy  was  at  hand, 
well  established — brandy,  to  be  sure — ^just  a  little — every  tongue 
prescribed  it,  and  clouds  of  witnesses  corroborated  its  claims  from 
personal  experience.     With  as  pure  intentions  as  any  man  ever 


44 


HRANDIOPATHY. 


:i 


w 


swjillmveil  an  niuvclrome  but  nocdCiil  potion,  he  swallowed  the 
popular  jill-licaliny  (liau<,^liJ.  TIk!  water  was  corrected — llie 
iliunp  bilious  malaria  was  disarmed — the  stomach  was  fortified — 
daily  they  found  many  salvations  in  brandy.  The  case  became 
still  more  imperative  when  they  reached  Bullalo,  that  limbo  of 
lost  New-En;f|andisms,  when  so  much  of  Eastern  faith  and 
practice  gets  left  behind.  The  raw  breezes  of  the  lakes  dem.'uid- 
ed  a  continuance  of  the  Ihand'-tpathic  regimen.  It  was  sovereign 
for  sea-sickness — in  short,  at  every  stej)  a  recurrence  to  the  pan- 
acea became  more  indispensable  than  ever. 

At  length  this  West  was  reached,  and  the  location  achieved. 
With  a  strong  heart  he  plunged  into  the  forest,  and  with  a  com- 
pany of  adventurers  like  himself  began  the  battle.  And  had 
stern  forests  been  their  only  foe,  the  victory  had  been  easy. — 
Slowly  these  log-dwellings  arose,  and  patches  of  corn  and  plots 
of  wheat  were  springing  up  around  them.  But  the  victory  tar- 
ried and  was  lost.  Melancholy  agues  came,  palsying  the  arm 
and  saddening  the  heart;  and  all  the  billions  ills  that  pioneers 
arc  heir  to  observed  their  order.  All  these  were  heavy — but  all 
these  have  yielded  to  the  brave  patience  of  thousands  less  brave 
than  this  man.  These  did  not  conquer  him,  but  the  remedy  for 
these !  The  poison  had  taken  cfTect.  The  remedy  was  loved, 
and  appetite  now  demanded  what  custom  had  made  familiar. 
The  history  need  not  be  minutely  followed.  It  was  one  ever- 
recurring  struggle  with  disease  too  often  cured — the  deep  disease, 
in  a  word,  of  morbid  thirst,  cleaving  to  its  victim,  and  ever  seek- 
ing and  finding  the  occasions  for  a  cure  so  welcome.  And  all 
through  that  settlement  the  same  cause  had  wrought  the  same 
desolation. 

The  rest  is  briefly  told.  In  virtue  of  his  native  tact  and  lead- 
ershi^>,  Lewis  had  become  the  medical  adviser  and  druggist  gen- 
eral of  the  little  commonwealth.  Of  late  he  had  spent  much 
of  his  time  in  the  neighboring  city,  or  vagrantly  dispensing  his 


BRANDIOI'ATIIY 


45 


illowcil  tlie 
recU'd — the 
is  fortilu'tl— 
;ase  beciimo 
lat  lirnl)o  of 
1  fiiitli   !»ii>l 
kcs  dcm.'Mnl- 
i'us  sovi'rei<;n 
;  to  the  pan- 
ion  achieved. 
[  with  a  coin- 
c.     And  had 
hecn  easy. — 
;orn  and  plots 
ic  victory  tar- 
ying  the  arm 
tliat  pioneers 
eavy — but  all 
nds  less  brave 
the  remedy  for 
dy  was  loved, 
nade  familiar, 
^vas  one  ever- 
deep  disease, 
and  ever  seek- 
•nie.     And  all 
isrht  the  same 

tact  and  lead- 
d  druggist  gen- 
ul  spent  much 

lispensing  his 


hincrs  and  concoctions — a  lust  num,  but  faintly  protesting  now 
agiiiust  perdition.  The  Choh'ra  panic  increased  his  practice  and 
finished  liis  career.  For  monilis  he  had  been  specially  furtify- 
iiii;  iiinisi'lf  against  that  malady,  even  to  tlu;  verge  of  delirium; 
and  when  we  nu't  him,  he  was  lleeing  in  wild  alarm — to  what 
issue  we  have  seen. 

In  a  week  the  sciuUy  relics  of  these  wasteful  and  woful  years 
were  gathered  up;  the  three  little  hillocks  beneath  the  solitary 
linden  were  bathed,  for  the  last  time,  in  tears;  and  the  wife  and 
(laughter  were  on  their  way  to  the  old  New  England  home. 

To  you,  rejider,  these  glimpses  at  the  downward  career  of  one 
gifted  and  safe  beycjuil  most,  can  have  but  a  feeble  interest  com- 
pared with  ours.  And  yet,  if  you  will  look  around  you,  if  you 
will  search  a  little  beneath  the  surface,  you  too  may  find  this 
very  process  of  perdii  on  repeating  itself  in  every  essential  fea- 
ture. This  is  but  one  glance  we  have  shown  you  into  a  great 
deep  of  ruin,  concealed,  almost  unsuspected,  into  which,  one  by 
one,  a  uuiltitude  are  droj)ping  in  silence  and  mystery  from  our 
side.  We  have  shown  the  process  in  a  single  instance — a  pro- 
cess which  has  more  to  do  in  furnishing  the  victims  of  intem- 
perance than  any  suspect.  Here  is  an  inlluence  of  a  nature  so 
secret  and  subtle  as  almost  to  escape  suspicion,  yvi  ever  at  work, 
in  the  past  and  now,  ballling  our  eilui  -,  ruining  our  hopes, 
thrusting  back  the  reformed,  ensnaring  the  unwary,  and  infect- 
ing whole  classes  and  regions  with  false  notions  and  a  latal  prac- 
tice. The  fruits  of  all  this  we  have  long  laiuented,  while  the 
process  of  the  mischief  has  never  been  sufliciently  explored  and 
adequately  estimated.  Let  us  better  consider  this.  It  is  not  an 
occasional  thrust  the  enemy  is  luaking  in  this  sort — it  is  the 
operation  of  a  well-devised  and  settled  system,  old,  wide-working 
evasive  of  all  pledges,  eluding  the  decisions  of  the  judgment 
and  perverting  the  conscience,  and  in  the  name  of  health  and 
life  ministering  the  worst  of  diseases,  the  most  terrible  of  deatli  . 


THE  VOICE    OF   THE  CHARMER. 


AN     APOL  OGUE. 


BY    Ji  R  S  .     EMMA    C .    EMBURY. 


There  was  once  a  child,  a  noltlc  and  l)eau(iful  boy,  who,  des- 
pising (he  pastimes  of  his  companions,  found  all  his  pleasure  in 
the  woods  and  wilds.  The  more  inaccessible  was  the  mountain 
pass,  the  better  he  loved  to  tread  its  rugg(  d  Avay :  the  deeper  the 
niountain  torrent,  the  more  tempting  seemed  its  cool  waters. 
Gentle  and  docile  as  a  babe  in  all  things  else,  in  this  he  was  not 
to  be  curbed  by  the  will  of  others,  but  would  wander  for  days 
in  the  deep  forest,  and  heap  his  bed  of  dried  leaves  on  the  brink 
of  the  most  frightful  precipices. 

Wearied  and  heated,  he  entered  one  day  into  a  dark  and  nar- 
row dell,  whose  sides  were  so  precipitous  and  so  thickly  clothed 
with  trees  that  only  at  noon-day  could  the  sunshine  glitter  on 
the  threadlike  stream  which  wound  its  way  through  the  deep 
ravine.  The  cool  freshness  of  the  place,  the  shadowy  twilight 
diffused  around,  the  soft  thick  turf,  which  the  n^.oisture  from  the 
hill-side  kept  as  green  as  a  living  emerald,  all  invited  him  to 
repose.  So  the  boy  flung  himself  beside  the  rivulet,  and  resting 
his  head  on  the  roots  of  a  gigantic  oak  was  fast  sinking  into 
slumber,  when  he  was  aroused  by  the  faint  murmur  of  music. 
Like  a  chime  of  fairy-bells  came  that  sweet,  low  ringing  tones, 


TIIR    VOICE    OF    THE    CHARMER. 


41 


of  music. 


so  faint,  yet  so  distinct  upon  his  ear.  Yet  it  roused  liini  not 
from  ins  repose ;  it  chased  away  the  heavy  vapors  from  his 
brain,  and  l^rought  sweet  dehcious  dreams,  but  it  did  not  lully 
awake  him.  His  heart  seemed  mehing  within  him,  and  a  trem- 
ulous and  thrilhnjj  torpor  was  fast  cre(>ping  over  liis  hmbs.  But 
even  while  the  inarticulate  singing  of  that  wonderful  melody 
was  in  his  ears,  he  felt,  rather  than  sa\V,  a  marvelous  light  shin- 
ing before  him.  The  starry-diamond,  the  wave-lighted  emerald, 
the  h(>aven-(inted  sapphire,  the  sunset-hued  opal,  the  shadowless 
chrysolite,  and  crimson-hearted  ruby,  all  seemed  melted  and 
blended  with  that  ray  which  flashed  and  faded,  and  again  gleam- 
ed gloriously  before  his  half-shut  eye.  The  boy  grew  faint  with 
delight.  The  nuisic  and  the  shifting  spl(>ndors  of  that  ray 
seemed  to  him  one  and  the  same.  He  knew  not  whether  his 
eye  beheld  those  charming  bells,  or  his  ear  was  blessed  with  that 
rich  harmony  of  colors.  Sometimes  ho  struggled  faindy  to 
arouse  himself,  and  then  he  ever  caught  sight  of  a  dimly  out- 
lini'd  form,  coiled  and  twisted  like  the  cable  of  a  mighty  ship, 
which  seemed  hiding  itself  behind  that  wondrous  light.  But  the 
music  would  ring  out  a  sw;-c(er  peal,  the  changeful  tints  of  that 
marvelous  splendor  would  Hash  athwart  his  sight,  until  the  boy 
sank  back  again  upon  his  mossy  pillow,  daz/led  and  sick  with 
beauty  and  delight. 

Noon  came  and  went — sunset  gilded  the  green  earth — night 
flung  her  shadowy  veil  over  all  nature — the  (|uiet  stars  looked 
down  inio  the  deep  dark  dell  where  the  boy  was  lying;  yet  the 
music  paused  not,  and  those  wondrcms  hues  were  ladeless.  For 
him  nature  had  but  one  voice,  and  life  but  one*  aspect.  All  was 
beauty  and  bliss  in  that  deep  intoxication  of  soul  and  spirit. 

On  the  morrow  an  aged  man  who  had  gone  forth  to  nu'ditale 
at  eventide,  found  the  boy  still  lying  on  thi!  soft  turf,  with  his 
head  yet  resting  on  its  mossy  pillow.     But  the  warm  breath 


1 

1 

'  11 

f  11 

1 

;    1 

r 

1 

1 

1 

1 

'  H 

H 

H 

48 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    CHARMER. 


l! 


\\t 


S' 


Stirred  not  now  tliase  clustering  curls,  anrl  his  glazed  eye  was 
strained  wildly  open,  as  if  some  brief  and  terrible  agony  had 
roused  the  sleeper  in  his  life's  last  hour.  He  was  dead — tliat 
young  and  gentle  boy — he  had  died  in  that  dream  of  beauty, 
but  upon  his  lip  was  a  purple  spot,  and  a  single  drop  of  blood 
had  fallen  upon  his  white  ))osom. 

Then  said  the  sage,  "  He  hath  slept  upon  the  den  of  the  bas- 
ilisk, and  it  is  the  queen  of  the  serpents  who  hath  bewildered 
and  slain  him." 

As  he  spoke,  the  flashing  of  those  marvelous  tints  troubled 
his  aged  eyes,  and  a  creature  of  strange;  lieauty,  bearing  ui)on 
its  bead  a  crown  from  whence  came  this  wondrens  light,  reared 
itself  from  the  root  of  the  old  tree,  while  the  c  ■  ^'ng  of  those 
mystic  bells  now  came  with  articulate  voice. 

"  I  slew  him  not,"  sang  the  voice — "  I  slew  not,  I  breathed  a 
dream  of  beauty  into  his  spirit,  and  his  human  nature  sank 
beneath  its  sweetness.  I  did  but  kiss  his  fresh  lips,  and  lo !  his 
soul  came  forth  from  its  prison  house." 

"  Child  of  perdition  ! "  cried  he  sage,  "  the  hour  cometh  when 
thy  dazzling  crown  shall  be  torn  from  thy  serpent  brow,  and 
thy  voice  of  music  shall  be  changed  into  the  wail  of  everlasting 
despair." 

"  But  till  then,"  sang  the  sweet  and  melancholy  voice,  "  till 
that  evil  time  cometh,  will  men  listen  to  my  singing,  and  look 
jipon  my  beauty,  and  die  in  the  madness  of  their  dream." 


eye  was 
3ny  had 
id — lliat 

• 

beauty, 
of  blood 

the  bas- 
wildoicd 

troubled 
ing-  upon 
It,  roared 

of  those 

readied  a 
ure  sank 
id  lo !  his 

eth  when 
ow,  and 
erlasting 


m^ 


'pt' 


:  /■ 


•'-'■    t 

'  1 

•i. 

m^^ 


I' 

I 


^\ 


■■-■■■:■  ■■''■:Jy:-ii' 


■m. 


■;i?'W 


if 


.''A' 


r-^^'-^t? 


"  till 


and  look 


u. 


5) 


m^-^mit£- 


.iA.' ' 


hiii/„i  in-  ,\,,-,i,  ,<ii;,if 


48 


ij 


stiri( 

sfrai 

rolls 

you: 

but 

had 

T 
ilisP 
and 

I 
his 
its 
itsc 
rrn 

• 

di-. 
be  i.r^' 

so 

i\\ 


tl 


<t. 


t/.  ■■\\ 


'  '  \  \ 


...    <,    I 

■i\     li'i 

;    >■   ■     ••/•■,    ' 

■    •>       ;:.       .      J'    fl 


-I!.,. 

I         ; 


1  1    ,    ■  \ 

1 
;  1 '  1  i 

i,    i    fi 

■!     •  -  ri,i> 

ir^' 

4 

n..itMl 

tl       e>!4l  M. 


U 


I     •   111' 


iV'\  i< 


1 1.    '  It  •'■i>' 


M 


-1"  :  I 


V     HI'  \ 


lie   n;-- 

1 '. ' ; 


>■  u 


ii.ii';|imI.>-i;i.mI> 


m 


h^ 


'  >  >  t 

in 


i^l 


1? 


ll\yii..^f 


■■/■  /    ,•  ;,..-.:  ^  /■./.'' 


DANIEL    H.    SANDS,  P.  M.  W.  P. 


It  is  now  nearly  thirty  years  since  Mr.  Sancls  had  his  attention 
drawn  by  providential  circumstances  to  the  great  evil  of  the 
drinking  customs,  then  almost  universally  prevalent ;  and  early 
in  1821,  he  came  to  the  decision  to  discountenance  by  his  ex- 
ample the  use  of  ardent  spirits,  and  the  practice  of  offering  it  to 
others,  he  did  not  then  perceive  the  danger  of  fermented  drinks. 
But  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  the  great  enemy  could 
operate  as  certainly  through  wine,  ale,  cider,  &c.,  as  through 
ardent  spirits,  and  he  comprehended  in  his  decision,  all  beverages 
that  could  intoxicate. 

When  the  Washingtonian  movement  commenced,  Mr.  Sands 
was  much  impressed  with  the  belief,  that  not  only  might  the 
sober  be  preserved  from  falling,  but  that  drunkards  were  not 
irrecoverably,  and  hopelessly  lost.  He  rejoiced  in  the  success 
of  the  Washingtonians,  and  was  happy  to  aid  them  according 
to  his  means  and  opportunities.  His  heart  warmed  and  expand- 
ed with  zeal  for  the  extension  of  the  reform,  and  when,  in  1842, 
the  organization  of  the  Sons  of  Temperance  took  place,  Mr. 
Sands  was  one  of  the  first  to  enter  heartily  into  it,  and  was 
chosen  the  first  W.  P.  of  the  first  Division  of  the  Order.  He 
was  also  the  first  G.  W.  P.,  and  the  first  installed  M.  W.  P.  of 
the  National  Division. 

Mr.  Sands  is  a  man  of  great  simplicity  and  integrity  of  cha- 
racter, nnd  though  quiet  and  unolUrusive  in  manner,  his  influence 

has  ever  hern  valuable  to  the  Cause. 

4 


THE    RECHABITE'S    ViSION. 

(Suggested  by  the  iSth  Chapter  of  Jeremiah.) 

BY    REV.     C.    B.     PARSONS. 

Loud  rose  the  song  in  "  Ig-daliah's "  hall, 

Where  Bacchus  crown'd,  presided  o'er  the  feast; 

There,  "  wine  and  wassail  "  spread  their  mad'ning  thrall, 

And  frenzy  rolled  f/om  king  to  cowled  priest 

As  Jiidah  spoke.     To  "  Jaazaniah  "  speed. 

And  bear  unto  the  Rechabitish  seer. 

The  king's  command — no  stern  denial  heed, 

But  bid  him  straight  before  us  here  appear. 

That  ancient  chief  who,  scorns  the  "  vinal "  grace 

And  brands  the  wine-cup,  as  a  guilty  thing. 

Shall  here  abjure  his  vow  before  our  face. 

And  "  Jonadab  "  shall  know  that  we  are  king. 

Speed  thee,  slave,  speed — while  yet  the  fountains  play 

And  rich  red  streams  proclaim  the  king's  behest,* 

Quick  bring  the  seer,  that  on  our  natal  day, — 

But  stay,  he  comes — hail !  thou,  of  heaven  blest. 

*  It  was  not  uncommor'  in  ancient  days,  for  kings  and  nobles  on  their  birth 
(lays  to  supply  the  fountains  with  wine  instead  of  water. 


THE  RECHARITE'S  VISION. 

Welcome  to  this,  our  ancient  festal  hall, 

Yea,  doubly  so  on  this  our  natal  clay 

For  now,  no  strife  of  war,  no  trumpet-call 

Shall  snatch  from  "Festa,"  vino's  power  away. 

Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl — fill  full  the  wine, 

Yea,  fill,  till  flood-like  it  o'erflow  the  brim  ; 

We  drink  to  Rechab's  race,  whose  vow  and  mine, 

Be  now  dissolved  in  this  our  pledge  to  him. 

So  bid  the  minstrels  sound  their  loudest  strain, 

And  let  the  revel  banish  each  control, 

"  The  wine  is  red ; "  come  drink  and  fear  no  pain. 

Let  Rechab's  pledge  be  buried  in  the  bowl. 

Hold !  mighty  king ; — 'twas  Rechab's  clarion  \oice, 

And  instant  huslied  was  every  noisy  breath, 

"  In  Jonadab "  be  still  our  cherished  choice, 

For  true  "the  wine  is  red;" — 'tis  blood — 'lis  death. 

No  vow  be  broken  by  our  humble  race, 

No  poison  streains  defile  our  healtJiful  life. 

No  Bach'nal  routs  our  peaceful  vales  disgraci' 

For  drunken  orgies  lead  to  deadly  strife. 

No  !  sacred  be  our  ancient  holy  vow. 

Which  still  protects,  from  every  fear  and  dread, 

And  stamps  on  each  glad  hour  from  past  till  now, 

"Look  not  upon  the  wine-cup,  wlien  'tis  red."* 

From  God  himself  the  fearful  warning  rings, 

That  "  they  have  wo "  who  tarry  at  the  wine, 

The  serpent's  bite,  and  fatal  adder's  sting 

Are  in  the  cup, — the  coimsel  is  divine. 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  Persian  and  his  fate, — 

The  hand  and  writing  on  the  garnished  wall  1 


Proverbs,  chap,  xxiii. 


» 


!) 


•I 


w  '3 


kil 


62  THE   REC  HA  RITE'S  VISION. 

The  death  of  Empire  and  (lie  wreck  of  Slate, 

Swallowed  and  lost  in  wretched  "  Bela's  "  fall  I 

What  was  there,  stronger  than  his  brazen  gate. 

What  more  powerful  than  Eiiphra'e's  tide? 

Not  tlie  "  Mede," — no — the  wine-cup  was  the  fate, 

The  wine-cup  slew  the  monarch  in  his  pride. 

Dost  thou  not  see  along  the  lengthened  line 

Where  Grecia's  hero  also  yields  his  breath  ! 

"  The  wine  was  red," — and  e'en  the  "  youth  divine,'' 

"  Young  Anuuon,"t — though  a  goil  lies  cold  in  death. 

Vainly  now  Tiniotheus  strikes  the  lyre, 

And  vainly  "  Lais,"  strives  her  lord  to  save, 

''  Long  at  the  wine,"  hatli  set  the  fatal  fire, 

And  Phillip's  son  sinks  to  a  drunkard's  grave. 

And  canst  thou,  King ; — of  great  Josi(  h's  race 

Thus  calmly  justify  t'  •.;  withering  bun'? 

Dost  thou  not  tremble? — destiny  to  face. 

And  hoar  the  stern  reproach, — "  thou  art  the  man ! " 

There  treason  lurks, — there  rapine,  fraud  and  death. 

In  clust'ri.)g  fury  madden  'round  the  bowl ; 

There  frieiidship  withers, — t)iere  the  Simoon  bre'ith 

Of  Zamiel  fires — fierce  torment  the  soul. 

'Tis  rirce's  on[j — 'tis  Hecate's  deadly  bane, — 

""  Tis  well  begun ; — "  the  worm  that  never  dies," 

Let  Liberty, — nay  life  itself  be  ta'en. 

But  never  said,  that  Rechab's  conduct  'ies. 

Hear  me,  David's  son,  and  mark  the  talc 

Of  Rechab's  sojourn  in  thy  mounttj'n  dell, 

He  came  no  pauper,  fortune  to  bewail, 

But  clad  in  steel,  thy  foemeA  to  repel. 

*   A /'xander  in  his  ma(lness,  claimed  fo  he  the  son  of  Jupiter  Ammon. 


THE   IlF.r  HA  BITE'S  VISION. 


0^ 


When  Syrian  Cohoifs  crossed  llu*  Jordan's  wave, 

And  sliuddcrinf^,  sei/cd  on  peaceful  Salem's  llironc, 

Then  Uecliab  cunie, — lo  strive, — to  Tiglif, — lo  save, 

His  valor  thine ; — his  vow  to  God  alone. 

And  wonldst  thou  now  corrupt  old  Rechah's  naiuo 

And  l)rand  the  falsehood  on  his  aged  l)row ; 

To  be  like  Sampson, — cruel  sport  and  shame 

For  "weird"  wantons; — these  around  us  now? 

No;  e'er  that  Pledije  which  onr  great  father  ga\e 

Shall  be  dishonor'd  in  his  distant  son, 

We'll  court  the  cold  embraces  of  the  grave, 

And  end  in  virtue,  as  we  first  begun. — 

But  hear  0  king,  what  God  has  ileign'd  to  show  ; 

The  veil  is  lifted  olT  the  weight  of  years. 

And  triumph  gleams  witli  gratulation's  glow, — 

The  fire-stream  dies  and  sober  joy  appears. 

As  in  my  tent  I  sat  on  yester-e'en 

And  mused  and  mourned  o'er  this,  thy  wicked  day, 

A  vision  rose,  upon  whose  face  were  seen, 

Things  which  shall  be,  though  yet  they're  far  awiy. 

A  city  shone, — bright, — mark  0  monarch  great, 

'Twas  not  our  Sodom, — neither  yet  Gomorrah, 

But  clearly  there  1  saw  the  drunkard's  fate ; — 

The  spirit  glar'd,  and  told  of  gloomy  sorrow. — 

And  yet  it  was  not  all  so  dark  and  drear. 

For  hope  was  smiling  there, — was  glad, — serene; 

The  "  Lion  of  the  Isles "  in  mad  career 

Had  met  his  fate ; — the  Eagle  swept  the  scene. 

The  wind  was  wing'd  with  stripes,  and  stars  revol\M 

With  billowy  splendor,  in  a  sea  of  blue ; 

They  told  of  "  Union  "  ne'er  to  be  dissolved 

While  honor  lived,  or  God — or  licav'n  was  true. 


f4 


TIIH    UKCHAlilTE'S    VISION. 


'Twns  a  new  luiul,  where  jt^lorv  l)ii<flilly  hcanied, — 
VVluire  Fret'doiii,  icgul  sut, — iiiul  slaves  W(!re  none, 
IIiji,Hi  luniil  llie  j^lory,  g^litlering-,  seemed, — 
A  name.     I  read  that  name  ; — 'twas  VVAsHiN(;roN. 
Tlie  vision  pass'd,  when  \o  another  si<(ht; 
Midst  teeming  thousands, — l)()rne  ahift  in  air, 
VV^as  Rkchau's  Vow,  {idorned  in  spoMess  white, 
The  chorus  sweUed,  and  honor  whslened  (here. 
And  now  as  '^snow  Hakes"  resting  on  the  night 
Or  orient  pearl  in  swarthy  Ethiop's  ear, 
Tliose  collar'd  hosts  of  love, — all  glorious,  hright 
As  hands  of  angels  show,  in  their  career. 
When  Moses  smote,  in  desert  land  the  rock 
And  Israel's  criuK;  was  in  the  flood  forgivi-n, 
A  single  fountain  answvred  to  the  shock. 
But  now  they're  many  as  the  stars  of  heaven. 
The  Sons  of  Temperance,  each  a  living  spring 
Of  moral  power ; — I  see  them  in  the  strife. 
They  drive  the  foe, — they  seek, — they  save  and  hring, 
The  poor — the  withered  heart,  again  to  life. 
Hail  holy  throng,  inspirited  with  "  Lovk," 
Be  "  Purity  "  thy  watchward  and  thy  guard 
Wliile  "  Fidelity,''  peerless  from  ahove 
Leads  to  crowning  victor}''  and  reward. 
******* 
Like  statues  all,  sat  "  Festa's  "  guests  around ; 
The  wine  untasted  on  the  crimson  hoard. 
A  charm  had  fix'd  them  spell-bound  to  the  ground, 
*  Twas  Israel's  hope  of  ancient  faith  resto.   1, 
For  God  had  bade  the  Rechal>ite  to  stand 
Example  of  what  Israel  should  have  been, 


THE  RKCIIABITE'S  VISION. 

To  lift  llu!  voice;  of  warning  in  tlio  Inml, 

And  l)iil  them  Ava  from  wine  and  sliauK?  and  sin. — 

The  music  ceased, — the  rout, — the  revel  done 
Both  king  and  courtier  stoU;  them  swift  away. 
And  left  the  champion  seer,  enwrapt,  alone. 
The  friend  of  cause, — the  con(|'ror  of  thi;  day. 
*  Far  in  Islam's  land,  lives  his  spirit-still, 
For  Rcchah's  vow  is  holy  prophets  faith, 
There  Moslems  fierce,  the  word  of  God  fulfil, 
"  Look  not  upon  the  wine,"  'tis  red  with  death. 


o5 


•  Beni  Khaibir  asserts  that  the  Rechahites  exist  to  this  day,  as  a  distinrt 
tribe,  and  bearing  the  name  of  Jonadab  their  fi^rcat  ancestor, — amon^  the 
Arabians  of  the  desert.     And  lliat  they  rigidly  observe  their  ancient  vow 


I) 


ADULTERATIONS    OF   LIIJUOIIS. 


BY    E  .    ("  .    n  K  I.  A  V  A  N  ,   K  S  Q  . 


Di>uiN(j  the  many  yours  my  atltMidon  litis  lu'cu  ilirfcltHl  to  the 
suhjtTt.  of  TniiptMiincc,  a  i^rcat  varioty  of  fads  liavo  conio  to 
my  knowlt'dyc  (Voiii  aiiduMific  soiiires,  in  relation  to  (lie  adiillor- 
alions  ofsdoiiir  drink,  wiiicli  I  have  from  lime  to  finu*  imlilislicd 
and  scaKcrcd  hroad-cast  llirounlioiit  (lit^  roiintry.  I  could  (ill  ii 
volume  willi  these  facts,  and  yet  tht>re  still  appears  to  he  great 
incredulity  tm  the  sulijecl. 

It  is  my  o|)iiiion,  could  the  real  truth  he  known,  the  whole 
community,  with  the  <>\ception  of  th(>st?  whose  appetite  has 
already  hecome  depraved  hy  indulj^'eiice,  would  ahandon  for- 
ever the  use  of  inloxicatint;;  drinks. 

Much  has  lieen  said  and  written  on  the  suhject  of  pure  una- 
diill«Mated  into\icatin,i«"  wine.  Some  jj^ood  men  have  contenih'd 
that  (he  ih!)le  sanctions  the  use  of  such  wine  as  a  heveraij'e, 
others  have  denied  (lia(  it  does  so,  and  have  insis(ed  (hat  the. 
only  wine,  the  use  of  which  is  sanctioned  hy  the  Ihhle  as  a  hev- 
»'ra<^e,  is  the  juice  of  the  orape  as  it  exists  in  the  cluster,  the  press, 
and  th(>  vat,  the  unintoxicati:ii>°  wine  of  tin*  Bihle. 

Not  now  to  review  this  dispute:  I  wish  (o  call  the  pnhlu*. 
a((en(ion  (o  (he  coiisid(M'a(ion  of  one  ••reat  (ru(h  on  which  all 
par(ies  ap[)ear  to  have  heen  entirely  aj^reed — to  wit:  That  (he 


I 


1  M 


ADl!  l/ri'.KATlONS    OV    L  1  Q  U  O  K  S  . 


i>( 


t 


WihU'  (Iocs  not  favDr  (ho  uso  of  wiiu's  in  whioli  distilU'd  spirit  or 
poisonous  thugs  hint' Ihtu  inixoil,  against  "  Tuosk  Anri.iKu.v- 
iKi)  KAcnrioiis  coMroiiNDs  kalskuv  r.\i.i.Ki>  winks,"  rvou  (hf 
aihorati's  of  |)uro  ffiuiontril  intoxiratiuf;'  \\n\v  ariayiul  (hcni- 
sclvt's.  Ih'To  (hero  is  ono  point  on  which  tlio  fiicnils  and  ojipo 
sfis  o(  total  alislinonro  oan  uniti'.     Hero  is  I'onuuon  yrouuil,  ami 


my  ohjorl  ui  niakiui;-  this  roiuuiunuatitm  is  to  pn-scnt  a  li'w, 
ami  only  a  fo\v,of  t!u'  many  facts  I  hav«-  in  my  ptvssrssion,  i^oiiiii- 
to  rstablish  tho  (ruth,  that  in  this  country  thcio  is  lilllo  or  nono 
of  (ho  wiuo  coutondoil  for  hy  tho  ()pposors  of  total  ahstinouco  ; 
and  that  the  "  Wine  quest  ion,"''  as  it  has  boon  called,  was  hardly 
worth  discussion  in  this  country,  howovi-r  important  such  tlis- 
cussion  mii^ht   he  in  w  iiu'-producinn"  counlrios. 

Most  if  not  all  of  (ho  facts  which  I'ollow,  havt>  boon  scalloroil 
throuuh  iho  pul)lications  which  1  havo  put  forth  dinini;'  tho  last 
iwonty  years:  my  ol)joct  is  now  (o  i;a'lu'r  from  those,  and  other 
publications,  such  as  appear  worthy  of  republication,  and  to 
present  tlu    same  in  a  condensed  I'orm,  in  (ho  hope  that   they 


w 


ill  tend  to  arouse  attention,  and    induce   all  classes  to  abai 


don  a  boverai>-o  so  destructive  (o  nund,  bodv,  and  estate 


My  attention  was  (ust  ca 


lied  t 


o  w  uie  ami  s 


[>irit  adulterations 


ill  1S<{I>.  An  actjuaintanco  of  my  own  w  ho  was  oniiai,'-od  in  tlu^ 
niannfactur(>  of  spurious  wines,  and  who,  in  one  year  sold  thirty 
thousand  casks,  slati'd  to  mt>,  in  substance  : — That  low  persons 
who  drink  wine  havo  any  conco|)lit)n  what  they  ilriidi.  For 
ovory  Gallon  of  wiiu*  imported  iVom  aiiroad,  ten  or  more  ari< 
manufactured  at  homo.  Frauds  conuuilted  in  (ho  adultera- 
tion of  wine  and  spirit  in  (he  City  of  N'ow-VorU  alone,  amount, 
it  is  suppos(>il,  to  at  least  (hroo  millions  «)f  dollars  anmially.  A 
cargo  of  wine  arrives  in  New-York,  is  at  out'o  purchas(>d  up,  and 
even  if  factitious,  in  Iwenty-foiu"  hours  its  whole  character  is 
changed.     'I'o  I'llect  (his  it  is  en\|)tied  into  large  vats,  and  then 


%   » 


58 


ADULTERATIONS   OF    LIQUORS. 


> 


i 


mixed  with  whisky,  cider,  sour  beer,  and  drugs.  Let  the  coun- 
try merchant  require  ever  so  great  a  variety  of  wines,  they  .  -in 
all  be  supplied  from  the  same  soi:*'^",  and  though  the  real  cost 
is  onl  from  fifteen  to  twenty  centL  ,'jr  gallon,  the  same  is  sold 
from  li  .y  cents  to  five  dollars.  The  greater  part  of  the  wines 
sold  in  this  country,  cost  the  manufacturer  only  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  c(>nts  per  gallon. 

Prof.  C.  A.  Lee,  of  New- York,  in  183G,  made  the  following 
statement : — 

"  A  clieap  Madeira  is  made  here  by  extracting  the  oils  from 
common  ^"hisky,  and  by  passing  it  through  carbon.  There  are 
immense  establislnnents  in  this  city  where  the  whisky  is  thus 
turned  into  wine ;  in  some  of  those  devoted  to  this  branch  of 
business,  the  whisky  is  rolled  in  in  the  evening,  but  the  wine 
goes  out  in  the  broad  day  light  ready  to  defy  the  closest  inspec- 
tion." 

A  grocer,  after  he  had  abandoned  the  nefarious  traffic  in 
adulterations,  assured  me  that  he  had  often  purchased  whisky 
one  day  of  a  country  merchant,  and  before  he  left  town,  sold 
the  same  whisky  back  to  him,  turned  into  wine,  at  a  profit  of 
from  4  to  500  per  cent. 

Prof.  Lee  further  states,  tliat  "  The  trade  in  empty  wine  casks 
in  this  city,  with  the  custom  house  mark  and  certificate,  is  im- 
mense ;  the  same  casks  being  replenished  again  and  again,  and 
always  accompanied  by  that  infallible  test  of  genuineness,  the 
custom  house  certificate.  I  have  heard  of  a  pipe  being  sold  for 
twelve  dollars.  There  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  New- York  an 
extensive  manufactory  of  wine  casks,  whicli  are  made  so  closely 
to  imitate  the  foreign  as  to  deceive  experienced  dealers — the  cus 
torn  house  marks  are  easily  counterfeited,  and  certificates  are 
never  wanting." 

"  I  have  lieard,"  said  Dr.  Lee,  "  dealers  relate  instances  in 


ADULTERATIONS    OF   LIQUORS. 


69 


i 


vvhicJi  extensive  stores  have  been  filled  with  these  artificial 
wines — and  when  merchants  ftoni  the  country  have  asked  for 
genuine  wines  these  have  been  sold  them  as  such,  assuring  them 
there  could  be  no  doubt  of  their  purity." 

M.  P.  Orfilla  on  Poisons,  page  198,  says,  "  Wines  are  adulter- 
ated by  various  substances,  the  object  is  to  mask  defects,  to  give 
color  or  strength."  Page  199,  "  Wines  adulterated  by  lead, 
sugar  of  lead,  and  still  more  frequently  litharge,  are  mixed  with 
acid  or  sharp  tasted  wines,  and  in  order  to  render  them  less  so, 
and  these  sulistances  do  in  fact  give  theui  a  sweet  taste.  Of  all 
the  frauds  this  is  the  most  dangerous."  The  effect  of  sugar  of 
lead  is  described  page  7-1  and  7o. 

Accum  on  Culinary  Poisons — Phil.,  page  74,  says,  "  It  is 
sufficiently  evident  that  few  of  the  commodities  which  are  the 
object  of  commerce  are  adulterated  to  a  greater  extent  than  wine. 
A  mixture  of  spoiled  foreign  and  home-made  wines  are  convert- 
ed into  the  wretched  compound  frequently  sold  under  the  name 
of  genuine  Old  Port.^^ 

Extract  from  the  Domestic  Chemist — London,  1831,  page  14, 
"  Many  kinds  of  liquors  are  frequently  adulterated  by  the  addi- 
tion  of  sugar  of  lead.^^ 

At  one  time  it  was  a  common  practice  to  adulterate  wine  with 
lead,  in  Paris. 

Dr.  Warren — Medical  Trans.,  vol.  ii.  p.  80,  states  an  instance 
of  twenty  persons  having  become  severely  ill  in  Paris  after 
drinking  white  wine  that  had  been  adulterat(>d  with  lead.  One 
of  them  died  and  one  became  paralytic. 

It  is  now  a  well  ascertained  fact  that  no  wine  can  cross  the 
Atlantic  without  spoiling,  in  its  natural  stale,  it  nuist  be  enforced 
by  drugs  or  ardent  spirit. 

A  friend  of  mine  ordered  some  wine  from  Madeira  with  tl  e 
positive  mjnnction  that  no  ardent  spirit  shoiUd  be  put   in  the 


60 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS, 


^      ), 


h 


wine.  The  wine  came  but  as  strong  as  ever — the  question  was 
asked  of  the  shipper — did  you  comply  with  my  order  ?  Tlie 
answer  ci?nie — "  We  comphed  with  the  letter  but  not  with  the 
spirit  of  your  order :  we  put  no  ardent  spirit  in  the  wine,  but 
we  put  the  wine  into  the  ardent  spirit,  had  we  not  made  the 
addition  the  wine  would  have  spoiled  before  reaching'  you." 

A  friend  purchased,  in  New- York,  a  bottle  of  what  was  called 
genuine  Cliampaigne  of  the  importers,  and  found  it  to  contain 
one  quarter  of  an  ounce  of  sugar  of  lead. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Baird  inforuied  me  that  he  had  been  assured 
while  visiting  and  residing  with  the  proprietors  of  Vineyards,  in 
France,  that  little  or  no  wine  was  drank  in  that  country  or  ship- 
ped from  it  in  a  pure  state.  The  dealers  [xuxhascd  it  in  a  pure 
state  at  the  Vineyards,  but  in  their  hands  its  character  was  en- 
tirely changed,  either  by  being  enforced  by  distilled  spirits  or 
drugged. 

Horatio  Oreenough,  our  distinguished  countryman  and  eim 
nent  Sculptor,  wrote  me  from  Florence,  Italy, — "  Though  the 
pure  juice  of  the  grape  can  be  furnished  for  one  cent  a  bottle, 
you  who  have  studdi(Kl  the  matter  know  very  well  that  the 
retailers  choose  to  gain  a  fraction  of  profit  by  the  admission  of 
water  or  drugs."  And  he  remarks, — "  How  far  tlic  destructive 
influence  of  wine  as  here  used  is  to  be  ascribed  to  the  grape,  and 
how  far  it  is  augmented  and  aggravated  by  poisonous  adultera- 
tions it  would  be  difficult  to  say." 

In  the  year  1812,  Dr.  Henderson  shows  from  the  Custom 
House  Books  of  Oporto,  (whence  the  term  Poii)  that  while  2512 
pipes  and  1G2  hogsheads  of  Port  Wine  were  received  m  Lon- 
don from  the  Island  Guernsey,  only  135  pipes  .nd  20  hogsheads 
were  sliipped  from  Oporto  to  that  Island.  Again,  during  the 
years  182(5,  '27  and  '28,  210  pipes  were  exported  to  the  Clian- 
n(?l  Islands ;  during  the  same  period  4G7  pipes  were  exported 


I 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS. 


61 


from  these  Islands  to  London  as  Port  Wine.  In  the  five  follow- 
ing years,  from  18:29  to  1833,  not  one  pipe  was  exported  to  the 
Channel  Islands  from  Oporto,  y^t  some  ingenious  merchants 
managed  notwithstanding  to  export  to  London,  fifteen  hundred 
and  Jifteen  pipes  of  Port  Wine  ' 

But  how  could  this  he  accomi)Kshed'?  "The  Wine  Guide," 
puhlislit'd  for  the  convenience  of  wine  brewers  and  wine  doctors 
tell  us. 

"  Recipe  for  making  Port  Wine.  Take  of  good  cider  4  gills ; 
of  red  Ijcets  2  quarts  ;  hrandy  2  (juarlo  ;  logwood  4  ounces  ;  rhat- 
any  root  bruised,  half  a  pound.  First  infuse  the  logwood  and 
rhatany  root  in  ])randy  and  a  gallon  of  cider  for  one  week,  then 
strain  off  the  liciuor  and  mix  the  other  ingredients,  keep  it  in 
a  cask  for  a  month,  when  it  will  be  fit  to  bottle." 

An  important  instance  of  Port  Wine  making  was  brought  to 
light  in  Birmingham,  England,  on  the  2-l:th  August,  1842, 
where  one  Adoiphus  Blumenthall,  wine  and  spirit  merchant, 
was  summoned  before  the  Magistrate  for  pretending  to  sell  to 
W.  H.  Bond  a  Pipe  of  Port  Wine^  and  obtained  from  tlie  same 
W.  H.  Bond  X57  sterling,  (about  $250,)  when  in  truth  and  in 
fact  he  did  not  sell  to  W.  II.  B.  any  Port  Wine  at  all,  but  a  cer- 
tain deleterious  mixture  of  cider  and  other  ingredients,  not  con- 
sisting of  Port  Wine,  with  intent  to  cheat  and  dcfiaud  the  said 
W.  H.  B.  of  his  money.  In  the  invoice  sent  with  the  wine  it 
was  stated  "./?  pipe  of  fine  Port  Wine.^^  And  in  a  note  accom- 
panying it,  that  it  was  of  ^'good  qualify,  and  I  hope  will  insure 
your  further  orders." 

The  said  Adoiphus  Blumenthall  was  convicted  of  this  case, 
and  numerous  other  instances  of  the  like  fraud. 

A  friend  calling  one  day  upon  an  innkeeper,  in  Croydoa^ 
England,  was  received  by  the  host  with  his  sleeves  tucked  up. 
and  both  his  arms  of  sanguineous  hue.     Upon  inquiring  the 


I 


62 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS- 


<^j 


• 


cause  of  such  appoainncc,  he  answered  privately,  that  there  was 
to  be  a  great  dinner  ot  i H  the  vohintecr  corps  of  the  neiglibor- 
hood  thc!  following  day,  and  that  he  was  then  brewing  the  Port 
Wine. 

There  is  no  kind  of  wine  but  A'^hat  can  be  imitated  by  the 
wine  brewer. 

George  IV.  had  a  wine  he  greatly  prized,  and  f  o  did  his 
servants,  and  they  drank  it  freely.  On  a  particular  occasion  he 
ordered  this  wine  to  be  supplied  to  his  guests,  but  there  was  but 
one  bottle  left,  one  of  his  household  understood  the  practices  of 
the  wine  fabricators,  the  remaining  bottle  was  sent  to  the  wine 
brewer,  and  he  the  next  day  furnished  his  Majesty's  table  vith 
a  full  stock  of  the  same,  as  to  flavor,  &c.,  &c.  The  deception 
was  not  discovered  by  his  Majesty. 

The  laws  of  the  State  are  severe  on  frauds  committed  by 
adulterating  strong  drink,*  every  dealer  should  refer  to  them. 

To  show  the  great  strength  of  liquors  sold  us  wine  in  this 

*  Art.  11,  Title  2,  Chap.  XVII.  Part  I.  Revised  Statutes  of 
Mew-  York. 

Sec.  193.  Every  person  who  shall  adulterate  any  distilled  spirits,  or  spirits  in  a 
state  of  distillation,  with  any  poisonous  or  unhealthy  substances,  and 
every  person  who  shall  sell  such  spirits,  knowing  them  to  be  so  adul- 
terated, shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  pimishable  by  line  or  im|)ris- 
onment,  or  both,  in  the  discretion  of  the  Court  by  which  he  shall  be 
tried ;  the  fine  in  no  case  to  e.xceed  one  thousand  dollars,  nor  the  im- 
prisonment tlie  term  of  four  years. 

Sec.  194.  Every  person  who  shall  fraudulently  put  any  thin"'  whatever  into 
any  cask  of  distilled  .spirits  branded  by  an  Insper*^,,  for  the  purpose 
of  attesiirig  the  real  or  apparent  proof,  or  the  bead  or  nature  of  the 
spirits  contained  therein ;  and  every  person  who,  without  first  obliterat- 
ing the  marks  of  the  Inspector,  shall  put  in  any  such  cask,  after  the 
same  shall  have  been  emptied,  in  whole  or  in  part,  of  the  spirits  con- 
tained therein  when  inspected,  any  other  spirits  or  spirituous  liquors 
whatever;  and  every  person  who  shall  sell,  or  in  any  manner  dispose 
of  any  such  cask,  when  emptied,  without  effacing  the  marks  of  the 
Inspector,  sliall  be  deemed  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  punishable  by 
fine  or  imprisonment. 

country,  over  liquors  sold  as  such  on  the  contiient  of  Europe,  in 


t 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS 


68 


a  letter  on  the  subject,  J.  Fennimorc  Cooper  remarks,  "  Five 
and  twenty  }  ears  since  when  I  first  visited  Europe,  I  was  aston- 
ished to  see  wine  drank  in  tumblers.  I  did  not  at  first  under- 
stand that  tl(^  half  of  what  I  had  been  drinking  was  brandy 
under  the  name  of  wine." 

A  Chemist  of  known  character  in  New-York,  obtained  four 
samples  of  wine  advertised  by  the  importer,  as  pure  unadultera- 
ted wine ;  a  kind  of  wine  which  could  not  liave  contained  over 
15  to  20  per  cent,  of  the  strength  of  spirit  if  free  from  foreign 
ingredients.  It  was  found  to  be  over  37  per  cent,  of  proof  spirit. 
Of  course  its  strength  was  increased  over  100  per  cent,  by  the 
mtroduction  of  the  oirspring  of  the  distillery. 

Dr.  Lewis  Beck  devoted  much  time  to  the  examination  of  my 
stock  of  wine,  about  the  time  I  abandoned  its  use. 

My  Port  wliich  was  as  imported  was  found  to  contain  42  per 
cent,  of  the  strength  of  brandy,  and  my  Madeira  48  per  cent. 

The  above  tests  were  only  to  ascertain  the  proprotion  of  spirit, 
not  to  detect  drugs.  The  two  samples  examined  by  Dr.  Beck 
were  imported  wine,  or  said  to  be.  The  Port  cost  §4  the  gallon, 
the  Madeira  about  the  same. 

When  Dr.  Hewitt  visited  France,  he  was  surprised  to  see  so 
nnich  drunkenness  on  what  he  supposed  the  pure  fruit  of  the 
vine.  Perhaps  he  was  not  aware  of  the  extent  of  adulterations 
in  wine  countries — and  the  adding  of  poisons  even  more  destruc- 
tive to  liealth  and  life  than  Alcohol. 

"  The  common  people,"  he  remarks,  "  in  France  are  burnt  up 
witli  wine,  and  look  exactly  like  the  cider  and  brandy  drinkers 
of  Connecticut." 

Louis  Phillipe  assured  me  "  That  th(3  drunkenness  of  France 
was  on  wine." 

His  son,  the  late  Duke  of  Orleans,  stated  to  me  that  it  would 
be  a  g'  eat  benefit  to  France,  could  the  grape  be  used  only  as 


<V-/H' 


; 


64 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS. 


food,  for  in  the  wine  districts  were  to  be  found  the  greatest 
amount  of  destitution  and  insulxmhriiition. 

Lord  Action,  Supreme  Judge  of  Rome,  (now  Cardinal  Action) 
assured  me  that  nearly  all  the  crime  of  the  city  could  be  traced 
to  the  excessive  use  cf  wine. 

I  onci  c'Ted  espectable  grocer  to  give  up  the  spirit  part  of 
his  busin« ; .,  h'  i  ■'^licd,  "  Let  me  sell  a  bill  of  ^1000  to  a  coun- 
try merchai  '.  ' ;  i,  juji^ar,  cofTee,  &c.,  &c.,  to  the  amount  of 
$800,  and  strong  driniv.  .o  the  amount  of  $200;  on  the  $800  I 
should  not  make  enough  to  pay  for  the  salt  in  my  porridge, 
while  on  the  $200  I  would  make  enough  to  render  the  whole 
sale  of  $1000  an  excellent  one." 

This  fact  clearly  indicates  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  grocers, 
not  selling  strong  drinks,  to  compete  with  those  that  do,  also  tlu 
enormous  profits  made  on  factitious  licpiors. 

I  know  a  large  dealer  who  having  obtained  the  recipes  foi' 
making  all  kinds  of  fraudulent  liquors,  brandy,  gin,  rum  and 
wine,  went  to  work  on  a  large  scale  and  was  making  a  fortune 
rapidly.  He  was  so  elated  at  his  success  that  he  mentioned  it  to 
his  family  Physician  and  showed  him  his  various  recipes.  The 
Physician,  after  examining  them,  informed  him  that  some  of  the 
ingredients  were  deadly  poisons,  and  to  sell  such  mixtures  to  the 
public  was  as  bad  as  murder.  The  dealer  was  alarmed,  for  he 
had  accmnulated  a  large  stock ;  he  came  to  the  conclusion  he 
would  give  a  notorious  drunkard  of  the  place  a  gallon  or  two  of 
it,  and  if  it  did  not  kill  him  he  would  continue  to  sell!  The 
poor  drunkard  had  the  precious  present,  he  drank  it,  it  was  not 
a  swift  poison,  he  did  not  die  immediately,  the  dealer  continued 
his  wicked  traffic,  died  rich  and  has  gone  to  his  account. 

While  traveling  in  a  pul)lic  conveyance  with  a  gentleman 
whose  aid  I  was  anxious  to  secure  for  the  Temperance  cause, 
the  adulteration  of  liquors  was  discussed.     I  stated  to  him  that  in 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS. 


05 


order  to  be  sure  he  was  diiiiking  pure  liijuor  and  not  a  mixture 
of  poisons,  he  would  require  a  Chemist  with  his  hd)oratory  con- 
stantly in  attendance.  After  giving  him  a  great  variety  of  fads 
on  the  subject,  he  replied,  "  /  cannot  credit  what  you  say  ;  you 
have  been  deceived  ;  such  things  could  not  exist  without  exposure 
so  long:  if  true  or  even  half  true  those  licpior  forgers  deserve 
the  State  Prison  ten  times  mor(>  llian  he  who  writes  another 
man-s  name,  without  his  knowledge,  on  (he  back  of  a  note,  for 
the  purpose  of  raising  money  thereon."  Here  is  Mr. ,  sit- 
ting beside  us,  he  is  an  extensiv(?  importer  of  w'mv,  let  ..  '")veal 
to  him.  Is  what  Mr.  Delavan  relates  true?  "Y'S,"'  ,  :>lied 
our  fellow  passenger,  "all  that  he  says  is  true." 

And  here  let  me  remark,  that  while  the  Tenn-CMM,-  2  press, 
as  well  as  the  religious  and  political,  have  teeuM-d  with  these 
charges  against  the  litpior  trade,  to  my  knowledg  'a  u,  has  not 
yet  appeared  the  first  denial. 

Some  years  since  a  great  mass  of  testimony  was  brought  before 
the  British  Parliament,  to  show  the  practices  of  the  spirit  dealers 
in  drugging  wine,  beer,  and  spirits  of  all  kinds. 

On  the  premises  of  one  dealer  over  2000  pounds  of  drugs 
were  foiuid,  to  be  used  in  making  wine.  This  man  was  con- 
victv'd  of  the  practice  and  severely  punished. 

Says  President  Nott,  in  his  admirable  lectures,  "  I  had  a  friend 
who  had  been  himself  a  wine  dealer,  and  having  read  the  start- 
ling statements,  some  time  since  made  public,  in  relation  to  the 
brewing  of  wines  and  the  adulterations  of  other  liquors  gener- 
ally, I  inquired  of  that  friend  as  to  .he  verity  of  these  state- 
ments.    His  reply  was — 

'  God  j;^orgive  what  has  passed  in  my  own  cellar,  but 
the  statements  made  are  true,  all  true  i  assure  you.'  " 
— Page  174,  hound  vol. 

"  That  friend,"  says  Doctor  Nott,  "  has  since  gone  to  his  last 


J 


-I 


ffi 


! 


i  ■l 


m 


A  D  U  L T  I',  R  A  T  IONS    O  F    L  I  Q,  V  ()  R  S. 


uccoiitit,  as  have  cl()ul)lles.s  many  of  those  whose  tlays  on  rartli 
were  shortened  l»y  poisons  he  dispensed.  15ut  I  si  ill  reineniber 
and  shall  loiij,'-  renieiuher  hotli  the  terms  and  the  torn;  of  that 
laconic  answer,  "tiik  statkmknts  made  are  tkuk,  all  truk, 

I  Af.SURE  YOU." 

"  Hilt  not  on  the  evidence  of  that  friend  does  the  evidence  of 
these  frauds  depend.  Another  friend  informed  mt",  that  the 
executor  of  a  wine  dealer  in  a  city  which  he  named,  assnr(>d 
liim,  that  in  the  inventory  of  articles  for  the  mamifactnrc!  of 
wine,  found  in  the  celler  of  that  dealer,  and  which  amounted  to 
many  thousands  of  dollars,  there  Avas  not  one  dolhir  for  the 
juice  of  the  grape." 

"  And  still  another  friend  informed  me,  that  in  exnnu'ning  as 
an  assignee,  the  pn[)ers  of  a  Iioiise  iii  that  city  which  had  dealt 
in  wine,  and  which  had  stop|)ed  p;iyment,  he  found  evidence  of 
the  j)urchase  during  the  |)rece(ling  year,  of  hundreds  of  casks 
of  cider,  hut  nont*  of  wine;  and  yet  it  was  not  cider  hut  wine, 
which  held  h(>en  supposed  to  have  i)een  dealt  out  hy  that  house 
to  its  conliding  customers." — Dr.  J\'(>tf,  pp.  17-1-17"),  hound  vol. 

A  letter  from  Madeira  from  an  olVicer  in  the  army  states, 
that  "  hut  80,000  barrels  of  wine  was  produced  in  the  island, 
and  50,000  claimed  to  be  from  thence,  drank  in  America  alone." 
^Ibid. 

"  In  confirmation  of  tliis  statement,  a  friend  of  mine,  James 
C.  Duane,  Esq.,  (of  Schenectady,)  informed  me  that  having 
been  induced  to  purchase  a  cask  of  Port  Wine,  hy  the  fact  that 
it  had  just  been  received  direct  from  Oporto  by  a  house  in  New- 
York  ;  in  the  honor  and  integrity  of  which  entire  confidence 
could  be  placed,  he  drew  off,  and  bottled,  and  secured  the  pre- 
c'ous  contents,  to  be  reserved  for  the  especial  use  of  friends; 
and  that  having  done  so,  and  having  thereafter  occassion  to 
i-;n!  r  tlie  cask  to  be  sawed  in  two,  he  found  to  his  astonishment, 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    T.  I  Q  l'  (Ml  S  . 


,.      '■• 


lliut  its  Iocs  consisted  of  a  \nrgi'  t|iian(ity  of  the  sl»;ivings   ol 
loj^wood,  a  rosidmiinof  jdinn,  and  otliiT  ini:rrcdi(Mits,  tli(>  name 
and  natnro  of  which  wvw  to  liim  unknown." — Dr.  JVott^s  lec- 
tures,  page  178. 

The  last  cask  of  wine  I  punhascd,  and  whicli  was  tested  by 
some  of  the  best  judges  in  the  country  and  pronounced  to  he 
good  wine,  I  aftcMwards  discovered  to  have  heen  made  in  the  h)ri 
of  the  wine  dealer,  and  did  not  contain  a  drop  of  the  fruit  of 
the  vino,  hut  doctored  whisky. 

Within  th(!  past  year  an  iu(iivi(hial  assured  nie,  that  whilo 
acting  as  assistant  to  a  wine  brewing  estaldisluiient,  h(>  had  fre- 
(piently  seen  $100,  made  on  a  single  cask  of  li(|uor  sold  as  wine, 
which  did  not  contain  a  drop  of  the  juice  of  the  grap(>,  i)ut  was 
made  from  whisky  and  drugs. 

A  dealer  in  strong  drink  once  residing  in  Albany,  assured  me, 
that  when  he  purchased  imported  li(|uors  in  New-York  on  ship- 
board, he  felt  no  security  in  receiving  the  im[)orted  article  unless 
he  watched  it  from  the  ship  to  the  Albany  vessel  hinis(>lf.  A 
large  number  of  pipes  of  imported  brandy  wore  purchased  of 
the  importer  while  on  the  dock,  removed  the  following  night, 
the  casks  emptied,  and  factitious  brandy  sul)stitutcd,  the  casks 
replaced  in  their  old  position  before  morning,  and  the  whole 
sold  at  auction  the  next  day  as  pure  imported  brandy. 

A  dealer  once  said  to  mo,  if  you  will  ])urchase  my  stock  of 
wine  at  cost,  (which  he  valued  at  $5000.)  I  will  give  up  the 
trade;  I  replied,'  I  will  purchase  every  gallon  you  will  warrant 
pure.  After  some  hesitation  he  answered,  "  I  have  not  one,  it 
is  all  enforced,  else  it  would  not  keep." 

Medical  men  advanced  in  life  have  assured  mo,  that  the  efTect 
of  using  intoxicating  liquors  wozr,  is  much  more  fatal  to  health 
and  life  than  thirty  years  since,  then  liquors  wore  comparatively 
pure,  the  alcohol  in  them  was  usually  the  only  ingroilicnt  that 


08 


ADULTERATIONS    OF    LIQUORS, 


ihc  constiliilioii  Imd  to  coiUciul  with,  iiiid  tlu>n  u  litihitiKil  (liiink- 
iird,  if  \ir  livrd  so  louj?,  ficinicnlly  did  not  brcomd  u  known 
drunkard  undrr  twenty  yt'iiis,  l)iit  now  it  frcqiicnlly  ocriiirrd 
thiit  till'  Name  amount  o(  Itabituul  drinking'  produced  disease  and 
intemperance  in  three  years;  this  chaujjfe,  these  m«'dical  genth*- 
nien  allrihute  to  the  presence  of  other  poisons  than  the  poison 
of  alcohol  in  the  intoxicating  h(|uors  used  hy  the  people  in  such 
(|uanlities. 

I  could  till  a  volume  with  fads  ji^oing  to  show  that  as  to  wine, 
it  is  next  to  impossihle  to  find  any  in  this  country  pure,  I  mean 
pure  fermented  unenforced  wine,  and  I  helievc^  the  same  in  re- 
gard  to  distilled  spirits.  Drugs  are  used  in  the  manufacture  of 
most,  if  not  all  kinds,  for  the  reason  that  with  drugs  the  com- 
monest whisky  can  be  turned  into  ruui,  brandy  oi  gin.  I  have 
been  assiued,  that  arsenic  is  used  in  w  hisky  to  restore  the  bend, 
after  having'  been  diluted  with  ■water.  So  with  beer,  when 
poisonous  drugs  are  cheaper  tlum  hops,  to  increase  the  inloxica- 
ting  pow(T,  and  money  is  to  be  made  by  it.  This  is  often  done, 
of  which  I  have  ])roof  as  positive  as  that  the  most  Jilf/iy  water 
has  been,  and  still  is  used  in  malting  and  brewing. 

A  large  druggist  in  New-York  made  no  secret  of  the  fact,  that 
he  sold  tons  of  poisonous  drugs  to  brewers,  and  opened  his  ledger 
to  a  friend  of  nu'ne,  and  gave  him  the  brewers  names  who  pur- 
chased them  in  larg-e  (pumtities. 

But  I  forbear,  if  a  single  fellow  mortal,  now  on  the  hig-hw^ay 
to  ruin  through  the  use  of  the  vile  couipoimds  above  described, 
can  be  induced  to  abandon  them,  and  ])lace  himself  out  of  the 
reach  of  danger,  I  shall  be  richly  compensated  for  sending  you 
this  nrticli! ;  and  I  cannot  but  hope  that  this  will  be  the 
case  with  many  ;  now  that  it  is  known  that  these  li|uors  contain 
an  element  of  death ;  now  that  statistics  have  shown  that  their 
use  shorten  human  life  on  an  average  eleven  years !  now  that 


ADULTKRATIONS    OF    MQUOHS. 


iV.) 


ii  is  provrd  (lint  (lir  wint«  in  use  here  is  lutl  tlic  pure  wiur  ap- 
proved by  (lie  l»il)lc,  Itiit  (lu>  mixed  wine  (lie  l>il»le  lontleiniis ; 
ii(»\v  llial,  these  tliit»i,'s  are  known,  is  it  to  be  believed,  tbal  wise 
and  fj[ood  men  will  contimie  to  sustain  by  tbeir  inlliience,  and 
countenance  by  their  example  (Irinkini,^  nsaj^es,  which  tend  to 
destroy  the  dearest  inter«'sts  of  mm)  in  this  worlil,  and  his  eternal 
interest  in  the  next  ? 

This  surely  ought  not  to  be — God  grant  that  it  may  not  In;. 


NECESSITY    OF    CHRISTIAN    PRINCIPLE, 

IN    THE   TEMPER  AN  Cf:   REFORMATION. 

BY    U  E  V  .    GEO.     8  .    C  11  E  E  V  E  R  ,    D  .    D  . 

The  virtue  of  Temperance,  from  beginning'  to  end,  is  one  of 
Cliristian  Principle.  Tiie  link  next  before  it,  according  to  Peter, 
by  which  it  holds  its  place  in  the  bright  chain  of  graces,  is 
knowledge;  and  the  link  next  after  it,  by  which  the  train  runs 
on  to  perfection,  is  patience,  or  perseverance.  Teuipcrance  and 
patience  are  the  two  middle  rings,  there  being  three  before  and 
three  after,  making  eight  cardinal  graces,  that  is  hinge-graces, 
on  which  the  gate  of  life  hangs  and  is  opened. 

Now  we  say  this  is  a  matter  of  Christian  Principle,  and  as 
such  only  can  be  carried  forward,  persevernigly  and  successfully. 
Principle  is  a  persevering  thing  ;  impulse  is  fitful.  There  must 
be  principle  in  impulse,  as  its  heart,  in  order  to  make  it  lasting, 
pers^  .vering.  Impulse  in  our  Temperance  Societies,  which  are 
such  an  incalculable  blessing,  can  be  sustained  only  by  Christian 
Principle  ;  on  that  we  must  build,  and  continue  to  build,  so  far 
as  we  would  make  permanent  progress.  Dissevered  from  Chris- 
tian Principle,  the  movement  must  degenerate  and  die.  This 
great  reformation,  springing  from  Christian  Principle,  is  the  great 


NECESSITY    OF    CHRISTIAN    PRINCIPLE 


1 


Oriental  tree  in  Malabar,  whose  branches,  too  vast  for  self-sup- 
port, rel  urn  themselves  into  the  parent  earth,  and  take  rout,  so 
that  the  daug-hters  grow  about  the  Mother  Tree,  in  Milton's 
language, 

"  A  pillared  shade, 
Higli  over-arched,  and  echoing  walks  betwenn," 

And  yet  all  one  and  the  same  tree.  So  this  mighty  reformation, 
in  all  its  vast  movements,  all  its  wondrous  spreading  growth,  must 
return  into  tlic  same  Christian  Principle,  and  tai<c  from  that,  as 
from  the  parent  earth,  its  continual  support;  olherwise  the 
brandies,  inslcvid  of  being  u  refuge  from  tl»e  heal  and  a  hiding- 
place  from  th(>  u'iii[)('st,  will  trail  worthless  on  the  ground,  and 
have  their  foliage  wasted  by  the  boar  out  of  the  wood,  and  the 
wild  beast  of  ihv  forest. 

We  rejoice,  then,  to  see  a  christian  reaction  and  return  to  the 
true  source  of  power  in  this  enterprise.  The  pledge  is  a  great 
thing,  but  it  must  be  reinvigorated  by  Christian  Principh',  umsl 
have  the  he;ut  of  its  being  there.  For  this  movement,  as  a 
great  b(-n(>volent  movement,  needs  not  only  to  be  set  successful- 
ly a  going,  but  it  must  be  continually  renewed.  It  is  not  like 
the  endowing  of  a  hospital  or  an  orj)han  asylum,  which,  when 
benevolent  men  have  once  estal)lisbed  it,  and  secured  its  funds, 
and  fixed  its  charter  and  its  laws,  will  go  of  itself,  will  endure 
and  prosper,  into  whatever  hands  if  fall  ;  then'  is  no  such  per- 
manent endowment  and  management  of  the  Temperance  Re- 
formation possible,  but  by  the  perpetually  renewed  force  of 
Christian  Principle.  The  funds  are  voluntary  otTerings,  and  not 
permanent  endowments.  The  power  of  the  tide  of  this  Refor- 
mation d(^pends  upon  the  ten  thousand  rills  that  shall  contiime 
to  How  into  it,  and  those  rills  themselves  come  from  the  dew  of 
Heaven.  Th(>  pledge  itself,  indeed,  is  in  one  sense  an  endow- 
ment, and  makes  llie  enterprise  a  sort  of  chartered  institution  j 


i 


.2  NECESSITY    OF    CHRISTIAN    PRINCIPLE. 

!mt  the  chuiter  is  one,  tlie  continuance  of  which  depends  upon 
the  virtue  of  the  people,  by  whom  the  pk'dge  must  j)erpetuitlly 
Lc  renewed  and  spread,  with  a  permanent  depth  and  breadtfi  of 
principle.  There  must  be,  at  the  lieart  of  it,  as  its  sustaining 
vilalit}'^,  i'.3  security  of  life  and  permanence,  the  power  of  Cluis- 
lian  Principle,  as  in  the  Church  of  Christ;  Temperance  linked 
with  Perseverance,  as  the  two  midway  Christian  virtues,  in 
Peter's  chain  of  eight. 

Men  may  perhaps  enter  this  Christian  chain  for  the  first  time, 
as  a  Cbristian  chain,  by  taking  hold  on  these  golden  links. 
Afany  a  man  has  becoiiu;  a  true  Christian,  l»y  beginning  here 
midway  <.\t  Temperance;  and  then,  from  this  point,  men  may 
go  backwards  to  knowledge  and  Ihith,  where  Peter  begins,  and 
ibrwards  to  godliness,  l)iK.)therly  kindness  and  charity,  wlu-re 
Peter  ends.  But  all  nnml  be  m  Christ.  Temperance  is  a  good 
ibing  in  itself,  but  by  itself  it  is  not  Christianity.  It  is  one  of 
I  lie  fruits  of  Christianity,  and  a  man  getting  hold  of  this  fruit, 
.iiid  following  it  along  the  branch,  to  the  root,  may  come  to 
Christ.  But  if  he  knows  nothing  but  that  fruit,  it  will  be  gone 
with  that  season. 

There  is  another  view,  also,  that  may  be  taken  of  this  pledge, 
:ii  reference  to  its  temporal  ])enefits.  It  is  a  policy  of  hfe-insu- 
rance  for  ourselves  and  our  families.  Fullill  its  conditions,  and 
you  are  positively  and  unfailingly  insured  against  one  of  the 
greatest,  most  dangerous,  most  destructive  pestilences,  coullagra- 
(ions,  and  wide-wasting  ruins,  with  which  human  society  ever 
was,  or  ever  will  be  afflicted.  You  and  your  family  being  enter- 
<(1  in  this  policy,  you  are  absolutely  secured,  if  its  conditions  be 
I'lilfiUed  on  your  part,  against  the  entrance  of  tlm  plague,  against 
I  lie  possibility  of  this  ruin.  It  cannot  get  in,  under  any  form. 
A  thousand  may  fall  at  your  side,  and  ten  thousand  at  your  right 
luind  ;  but  it  shall  not  come  nigh  tliee.     Of  this  terror  by  night, 


NECESSITY    OF    CHRISTIAN    PRINCIPLE. 


78 


and  this  arrow  that  flecth  by  day,  of  this  pestilence  that  walketh 
in  darkness,  and  this  destruction  tliat  wasteth  at  noon-day,  thou 
slialt  not  be  afraid.  It  shall  not  touch  thee,  it  shall  not  conio 
nigh  thy  dwelhng. 

Assuredly,  this  is  a  great  thing.  To  be  insured  against  the 
horrid  vice  and  calamity  of  intemperance,  were  this  life  alone 
in  view,  woidd  be,  for  this  life  only,  an  unspeakable  blessing. 
But  wh(;n  you  look  at  this  pledge,  this  insunince,  through  that 
sentence  of  God's  Word,  "  That  no  drunkard  sludl  ever  inherit 
the  kingdom  of  Heaven,"  then  its  value  rises  infniitely  above 
earth,  then  it  is  lost  in  eternity.  Every  other  sin  may,  possibly, 
be  repented  of  at  a  very  late  hour,  yea,  at  the  last  hour ;  but  if 
a  mnn  dies  a  drunkard,  he  dies  in  the  impossibility  of  repent- 
ance, dies  in  the  life  and  death  of  that  very  sin  of  drunkenness ; 
he  dies  in  a  state  which  precludes  the  hope,  because  it  shuts  out 
the  possibility,  of  repentance  unto  life.  The  Temperance  pledge 
may^  therefore,  in  every  case,  take  hold  on  heaven  ;  and  if  it 
1)0  maintained  as  growing  out  of  that  cardinal  grace  in  Peter's 
chain  of  Christian  principles  and  virtues,  it  always  does  take  hold 
on  heaven.  Every  man  of  true  Christian  Temperance  is  a  fol- 
lower of  Cluist. 


! 


'Srwl 

1  ' 

T    i 

1 !' " 

PHILIP    S.    WHITE,    P.  M.  W  .  P. 

This  dislino-iiisli(>(l,   cnriicsl,  and   jxiwrrful    ;i(lvoc;ite    of  ihv 
Tcnipciiincc  Ucronii,  wns  l)()rii  in  Fianl<f(>rt,  Kentucky,  in  1S07. 
His  fatluT  was  aiiionii"  (Ih*  lirst  ol   (lie  inliucnfial  fi.rullirs  of  Vir 
ginia,  wlio  oniiy-ratcd  to  (hat  State,  and   roiincd  a  oniispicuoi'.- 
pail  of  that   hold  and  \  ii>()roiis  cliaraclcr  wliich  gnvr   IvfUiMcky 


n  cnviahu'  ])osilion  in   the  coiilcdiTacN 


fc 


Bv  il 


H'  a(l\i('t    (■      ii> 


hrothcr.  J(»s('[)h  M.  While,  who  had  just  coinnie'^-er'  his  Iri'- 
hant  career  as  a  Dele<;ate  in  Congress  from  Fh  'id-',,  !he  siih|ect 
of  tliis  sketch  l)ecanie  a  iriair.i  iiiate  in  the  L'^niversilv  of  Viri>-inia 


in  1S2-I,  whence   he  removed   d 


>      1)11    e;i,( 


red   the  I  ni\  ( rsiiv  of 


llai\ard  as  a  licsid(  nt  li,.Mhiali  m  I"^.*".'.  TIn-ee  years  i'lereaT- 
»er  he  located  in  Florida  ;  ■j\u\  in  lS-)0,  with  an  e\C(-lIent  know- 
h'do'e  of  the  .Sj)anish  language,  he  \  isited  the  Island  of  Ciiha, 
with  the  view  of  collectinin'  documentary  e\  id(>nce  in  the  cele- 
l)rat,ed  claim  of  (he  heirs  of  John  Forhes  to  F), ()()()  acres  of 
land. 

On  his  return  to  the  Uniled  Stales  he  went  to  Keulucky  and 
finished  his  leyal  studies  wilh  thai,  emineiu  Jurist,  the  present 
Jndye  Monroe.  After  parlicipalinuf  in  the  Seminole  war,  hy 
which  his  health  was  uiuch  impaireil,  he  took  a  tour  through 
Im, rope  wilh  his  fai  lily,  s[)endinL!'  nearly  four  years  there,  and 
v'-i(ing  il'»'  princi[»iil   [jlaces  of  inl(M(sl.      In   ^S:]'J  he   was  ..n- 


m 


■n 


•i 


Iff  im 

,'!i      )            :■'    ''J 

i 

^'^H 

■  ■^ 

! 

n 

11 

IM 

H 

m 

^ 

i 

1 

poi 

In 

and 

disli 

crj( 

dani 

a  liij 

no  c 

self 

the  1 

l)roir 

of  tl 

day  1 

arresi 

Mc 

Iemi 

secon 

tlie  fi 

he  ni 

mad( 


firm 
Pcnns 
vioIatJ 
pare  i\ 
prinoil 


tl 


le  Si 


mac, 
fact. 


u 


The 


other 
At 


PHILIP   S.   WHITE,  M.   W.   P. 


75 


pointed  by  Governor  Dodge,  District  Attorney  of  Wisconsin. 
In  1841  he  located  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  signed  the  pledge, 
and  enlisted  for  life  in  the  cause  of  which  \\c  has  since  been  so 
distingi.ished  a  champion.  Associated  as  he  was  with  those  who 
enjoyed  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  who  thought  there  was  no 
danger  of  excess  in  the  indulgence  of  a  good  glass  of  wine,  with 
a  liighly  cidhvatcd  mind  and  superior  social  (jualities,  it  recpiired 
no  ordinary  degree  of  moral  courage  for  Mr.  White  to  tear  him- 
self away  from  the  convivialities  of  his  associates,  and  denounce 
the  vices  of  fashionable  life.  He  had  seen  the  youthful  and  the 
promising  fall  around  him,  and  he  recognized  the  deadly  fangs 
of  the  ser[)ent  wliich  coiled  around  tiie  wine-cup,  and  from  that 
day  forward  he  struggled  against  "  j)rincipaliiies  and  powers"  to 
arrest  the  destroyer. 

He  was  among  the  first  to  enter  the  Order  •("  the  Sons  ot 
Temperance,  was  the  first  G.  W.  P.  of  Pennsylvania,  and  the 
second  M.  W.  P.  of  the  National  Division.  On  the  occasion  of 
the  first  National  Jubilee  of  the  Order  in  the  City  of  New-York, 
he  made  a  speech  in  the  Park  to  near  40,000  persons  which 
made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression. 

From  the  mourent  Mr.  White  enlisted  in  the  cause  he  took  a 
firm  stand  against  the  traflic.  He  made  arrangements  with  the 
Pennsylvania  State  Temperance  Society  to  prosecute  all  the 
violators  of  the  licence  law  in  Philadelphia  in  1842-3,  and  pre- 
pare for  publication  all  matters  that  Society  might  suggest — the 
principal  of  which  were  appeals  to  the  Medical  Faculty.  About 
the  same  period  he  published  a  most  thrilling  story,  "  The  Ma- 
niac," the  scene  of  wiiich  was  laid  in  France,  and  founded  on 
fact,  and  under  his  personal  observaticm.  Another  story  entitled 
"  The  Indian  Payment,"  was  extensively  published,  and  several 
other  pieces,  all  illustrating  the  evils  of  intemperance. 

At  a  more  recent  period  he  published  his  work,  "  The  War 


re 


PHILIP  S.   WHITE,   M.   \V.   P. 


li 


» 


I 


of  4,000  Years,"  containing  a  history  of  Intemperance  and  its 
desolating  march,  and  an  account  of  the  various  Temperance 
organizations  from  time  to  time  instituted,  including  the  Order 
of  the  Sons  of  Temperance. 

For  a  period  of  eight  years  Mr.  White  has  been  speaking  and 
writing  continually  in  behalf  of  the  Temperance  Reform.  lie 
has  made  an  impression  upon  his  generation,  and  deservedly 
ranks  among  the  Most  Worthy  of  those,  who  have  given  them- 
selves to  "  The  cause  of  all  mankind." 

As  a  speaker  his  eloqu(>nce  draws  its  life  from  the  heart-felt 
earnestness  with  which  he  treats  his  subject.  No  man  has  done 
more  for  the  advancement  of  the  Order  of  the  Sons  of  Tem- 
perance. From  all  parts  of  North  America  which  he  has 
visited — from  the  cold  regions  of  Her  Majesty's  dominions  to 
the  far  sunny  south,  the  Temperance  papers  teem  with  eulogies 
upon  him  as  a  man,  a  philanthropist,  and  an  orator.  And 
whether  by  the  side  of  Ulie  veteran  John  Chambers  in  the  pulpit, 
01  the  humblest  advocate  of  the  reform  in  the  market-place,  he 
is  the  same  zealous,  earnest,  unflinching,  delineator  of  intem- 
perance, as  the  greatest  enemy  of  God  and  man.  May  he  long 
live  to  inspire  the  public  with  his  noble  aeal  in  this  God-like 
cause. 


PROEM. 


BY    MISS    PH(EBE    CAHEV. 


Knowing  how  all  who  live  are  l)oiind  togctlier 

By  the  sweet  tics  of  one  luunanity, 
How  all  are  follow-pilgri.us  journeying  thither 

Where  shines  the  city  of  eternity  ; 

And  seeing  that  he,  to  whom  no  brother  lentleth 
A  helping  hand  to  hear  his  weight  of  ill, 

Oft  falters  on  the  pathway  which  ascendeth 
Up  the  beautiful  summit  of  life's  hill : 

And  turns  to  follow  by-paths  and  forbiddim. 
Winding,  and  winding  back  from  virtue's  goal, 

'Till  where  the  sin-cryts  of  the  world  lie  hidden 
Lost  and  bewildered  walks  the  human  soul ! 

We  who  have  yet  with  sin  maintained  resistance, 
And  tempted,  have  not  wholly  turned  asidt^ ; 

Would  come  with  love,  w.th  counsel,  and  assistance, 
To  all  whose  spirits  are  more  sorely  tried. 


If  there  be  any,  who  would  turn  and  perish 

Because  no  friend  has  whispered  words  of  cheei, 

Any  whom  yet  no  heart  has  learned  tu  cherish. 
To  us  their  sull'erings  and  their  hopes  are  dear. 


78 


PROKM. 


Tf  I  here  he  any  fall 'ring',  and  no  longrr 

lM|iial  to  liff's  most  loilsoiiic  iiiarclics  found  — 

O,  Iran  on   w^,  until  your  feet  grown  stronger 
Art'  lirnily  planted  on  a  vantage  ground. 

And  then,  forsaken  one,  who  darkly  weepest 
Over  a  lost  one  gone  from  virtue's  triick. 

For  thee,  even  where  sin's  shafts  are  sunken  deepest. 
We  will  go  fearlessly,  and  lead  him  hack. 

Yea  we  will  save  him,  even  though  the  hisses 
Of  hatlled  demons  mock  us  as  we  come — 

Love's  lip  is  sweeter  than  the  wine-cup's  kisses, 
Love's  smile  is  hrighter  than  the  wine-cup's  foam ! 

And  daily  thus,  to  hless  our  efforts,  hringing 

Some  soul  that  turned  or  might  have  turned  to  death. 

We  shall  go  up  life's  hill  together  singing- 
The  sweetly  solemn  hymns  of  love  and  faith. 

And  from  its  summit  viewing,  hut  not  sadly. 
The  peaceful  valley  where  shall  end  our  strife. 

We  will  walk  downward  willingly  and  gladly 
To  the  last  hivouac  on  the  plains  of  life. 

For,  knowing  death  is  hut  the  door  of  heaven, 
We  shall  press  joyfully  to  meet  the  hour ; 

Not  with  !ocked-step  like  cringing  felons  driven 
Under  the  gateway  of  their  prison  tower ! 


■t 


U  'p 

won't 
nothiui 

"Nr 
the  sad 


THE    CIRC  HAN    CUP 


BY     T. 


A  K  T  II  U  R  . 


The  leading-  incidents  of  the  following'  story  were  rc.'luted  (o 
nie  by  a  gentleman  whose  long  conliniied,  consistent  and  hu- 
mane efforts  in  the  Temperance  cause,  are  worthy  of  the  high- 
est praise. 

In  a  certain  district,  (said  he,)  it  became  my  duty  to  visit  the 
poor,  and  relieve  such  as  were  needy  by  a  distriI)ution  of  food 
and  fuel  wliich  a  benevolent  association  had  provided.  One 
very  cold  day,  while  seated  in  my  oflice,  a  child  not  over  seven 
years  old — a  brig^ht-eyed,  fair-faced  boy — came  in,  and  (imidly 
approached  my  chair. 

"  Well  my  little  fellow,"  said  I,  speaking  in  a  tone  of  encour- 
agement, "  what  is  wanted  this  hiorning?  " 

"  Does  Mr. live  here?  "  asked  the  child  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  I  am  Mr. ." 

His  face  instantly  brightened. 

"  Then  won't  you  give  us  some  wood  to  make  a  fire,  and 
won't  you  give  us  something  to  cat.  We've  got  no  fire  and 
nothing  *.o  eat.     Mother  sent  me." 

"  No  fire  and  nothing  to  eat!"  said  T,  touched  instantly  by 
the  sad  artlessncss  of  the  child. 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  872-4303 


^1 


'^>^ 


o"^ 


80 


r  HE    Cl  K  C  I'.  A  N    V  V  V  ■ 


"  No,  sir.     Aiul  we're  all  so  cold  and  liun'''rv 


.  n 


(i 


(( 


(( 


Wl 


lere  do  you  liv< 


I  iiu 


{Hired 


In   Baker's  Court,"  replic^d  the  tliild. 
Your  mother  sent  you  I  " 


u 


es,  sir 


»> 


"  Who  is  your  mother'?  " 

"She's  my  mother,  sir,"  relurned  the  lioy,  innocently,  afier 
hesitatiii'''  a  moment  or  two,  evidenllv  in  doultt  as  (o  how  he 


should  answer  m 


u 


w 


y  c|n(\stion. 


lat  IS  vour  mollier  s  name 


mean 


?  " 


sai( 


1  [. 


"  Mrs.  Clark,"  he  answered. 


u 


u 


u 


And  vou  live  in  Baker's  Court  I 


?> 


:es,  sir 


V 


t)u  know  tiie  num 


her? 


Do  y 

The  child  did  nut  understand  what  I  meant. 
How  can  I  lind  your  house  ?  "  I  asked. 
I'll  show  you  the  way,"  he  replied  (juickly 
Is  your  father  livinir  ?  "  I  next  inquired. 


a 


U  T9 


u 


The  little  hoy  looked  i\u:  earnestly  in  the  face;  and  then, 
without  re|)lyinu,  let  his  his  eyes  fall  upon  the  lloor. 

I  was  aliout  reiH-atin*;-  my  question,  1m;!,  thinkinir  thiit  it  wa.s 
the  common  case  of  a  ilrunken  father,  I  refrained  from  dointf  so, 
lest  I  should  cause  a  hliish  of  shame  to  mantle  tin-  cheek  of  a 


tender  child. 


a 


I  will 


ijfo  witii  vou  m  a  niomenl,'  said  I,  nsin";  an 


id  tak 


mir 


down  my  warnt  overcoat. 

What  a  liyht  came,  instantly,  into  the  face  of  the  little  hoy  ! 

As  I  drew  on  my  heavy  surtout,  I  could  not  hut  notice  the  thin 
pirments  of  the  child,  and  a  shiver  passed  over  mo  as  I  thouy;hl 
of  his  encountering^  the  cold  hitinj^  air  of  a  January  inornin;^', 
with  the  thermometer  down  to  within  five  degrees  of  zero. 
Through  his  rent  shoes  and  ragged  stockings  were  vis'blo,  here 


THE    CIRC  KAN    CUP. 


81 


\o\  ! 
Iiiii 

|(>ro. 
icrc 


uml  tluno,  the  red,  shining  snifiuc  of  Ins  htth;  feet,  und,  as  he 
moved  towards  the;  door  I  siiw  ihm  he  hmptd  IVoni  chilhhiins. 


a 


I  lav 


('  you  no  Wiirnicr  oloihcs 


s;ii( 


I  I. 


He  shook  his  head  and  nnirinwiiMl, 


?» 


(( 


u 


Yo(i  will  (Vee/<*  if  you  g"o  out  iis  yoii  are." 

Oh,  no  sir,"  he  answered:  "I  didn't  feel  very  co\d  when 


I  came.      F  ran  all  the  way 


?5 


U 


U 


u 


iin  i)a(-k,  tiien,  as 


fast 


as  vou  can,'   sai 


d  I. 


Ain't  \ou  coniini'?"  !:e  iiKiuired,  a  shade  of  disa[)[)uinlnieni 


falliui;  upon  his  face, 


<( 


Oh,  yes  :  Tin  going*  with  you.     Only  do  you  run  to  keep 


warm. 


And  so,  on  hefore   iiir  the  hov  ran,  while  I  walked  after  with 


Ic 


onu"  .-iiid  hurried  strides. 


Uiijfht  jrood  car-!  did  he  take  never  t( 


he  iiKire    liian  a   f(  w  paces  in  advniii'e.     On  reaching   leaker' 
Court,  he  conducted   me  lo  an  old  hrick   huildinu",  that   had  f( 


or- 


merly  Iteen  used  as  a  sugar  house;  i)ul  which  had  more  recent!} 
heen  fitted  up,  roughly,  with  a|)artments  to  rent  out  to  poor  fam 
ilies.  Along  its  dirty  landings  and  high,  steep  stiiirs,  I  followed 
the  child  up  to  the  fourth  story,  w  here,  in  a  room  j)artitioned  oil' 
from  the  main  loft,  hy  rough  hoards,  every  seam  of  which  wa^ 
open  to  admit  the  chilling  air,  I  found  a  mother  with  a  hahe  in 
her  arms,  and  a  girl  younger  than  the  child  who  had  heon  seju 
for  me,  hovering  over  a  few  dying  emlxMs  that  gave  iio  warnuh 
to  the  surrounding  air.  The)^  turned  towards  me  with  a  hopeful, 
pleading  look,  ns  I  entered. 

Is  it  true,  madam,  that  you  have  neither  food  nor  fuel  ?  "   I 
asked. 

I  v:ns  answered  only  hy  tears. 

Humanity  prompted  to  a  speedy  relief  of  the  suffering  hefore 
me.     It  was  no  time  to  jiause  for  inquiry  heyond  this. 

"  You   shall   lia\  e  hcth,'"  said   I,  turning  (piickly  away   arul 


u 


P 


sj  THE    ("I  lUHA  N    Ci;  P. 

i^'oinuf  tlown  stairs.  A  fi'W  lilocks  disiaiit  was  a  sl()\('-mak«'r, 
who  was  under  condacl  to  riiiiiisli  ii  small  clicai)  slovc  to  ihc 
order  ol'  llie  Soriely,  l»y  which  I  was  authorized  lo  make  certain 
ilislriliiilioiis  (o  the  poor. 

To  this  |)tMson  I  wi'Ml,  and  at  my  rei|iiest  he  immediati'ly  sent 
:i  man  wilii  a  stove,  and  I'liel  enough  lo  kindle  a  lire.  I  then 
■)rdered  half  a  Ion  of  coal  lo  the  same  direction.  Alter  this  was 
ilone,  I  procured  a  few  articles  of  ft  >d  and  direcled  ihem  to  be 
taken  immediately  to  the  desiiiule  I'amily  in  the  old  sii^ar  house, 
f  accompanied  the  porter  who  carried  them,  and,  lakini,''  the  luis- 
':et  iVom  his  hands  at  the  door  of  the  room  occupied  hy  Mrs. 
Clarl;  and  her  children,  enteicd  with  the  relief  I  had  I)roUi»-ht. 

The    stove   was   up,   a    lire   kindled,   and,  alriiidy   a   yenial 
warmth  was  heiiiiniinir  to  dilluse  itself  around. 

'' Here  is  some  food  ma'am,"  said  f,  handiiiii;'  her  the  basket 
of  provisions.  "•  In  a  short  tiuie  there  will  he  brought,  here  a 
iialf  ton  of  coal.'' 

Her  (i-ailul  thanks  I  will  not  repeat. 

T)urin^'  llic  short  time  I  riMuained  in  the  room,  I  observed  this 
woman  ukhc  closely.  She  was  not  over  thirty  years  of  as;v, 
and  there  were  many  traces  of  beauty  on  her  cari'-worn  face  : 
while  something'  in  her  manner  showed  the  existence  of  a  cer- 
tain (le<>iee  of  refinenjeiit  and  cultivation.  Moreover,  her  face 
had  a  familiar  asp(>ct ;  Imt,  if  I  had  se(>n  her  before,  nuMUory 
not  did  recall  the  fiu-t.  T  made  few  ini|uiries  as  fo  the  reason  of 
her  beini''  in  so  destitute  a  condition,  but  her  replies  wer(!  evasive. 
I  asked  if  her  husband  wen^  living-.  She  let  her  eyes  rest  in 
inin(«  for  a  ft>w  moments.  Then  they  sunk  to  the  floor,  liut 
she  did  not  answer  my  ipiestion.  Promising-  to  ^all  around  in  a 
few  days  and  see  her  again,  I  went  away. 

One  morning,  some  three  days  after  this  occurrence,  T  was  on 
my  way,  early,  to  mark(>t.     Tt  still  remained  evtreuiely  cold, 


TIIK    riHCKAN    CVV. 


88 


on 


the  thcriuoiiii'trr  Ii;i\  ing  fallen  lo  wiiliin  llircc  degrees  of  zero. 
As   I   p.-issed    Maker's    Conrl,  I   glanced   my  eyes   down  towards 
llie  old  Siii,mr  House,  and,  as  I  did  su,  saw  a  man  come  out  of  (liu 
hiiildiui,'-  with  a  s(ove  in   his  arms.     He  paused  a  moment,  with 
a  iiesitaling  air,  as  he  reached  the  pavement,  looked  hack,  then 
all  aroimd,  listened,  and  then  came  hurriedly  out  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  main  street.     J  lis  movements  awakened  my  suspici(»n 
that  something-  was  wron|r.      I  wjis  satisfied  of  this  as  he  drew 
nearer,  and  I  saw  thai   the  stove  he  carried   was  similar  lo  the 
one  1  had  procured  a  few  days  since  for  (lie   poor  woman  named 
Clark.     The  surprise  (»ccasioned  hy  this  incident  was  still  further 
increased,  as  I  recoi^ni/ed  in  (he  tattered.  Moated,  dehased  loo!;- 
iixg    creature,   a  yoiMi;;-   man   l»y  the   name  of   Clark,   who  had 
falh'n  into  intem[)erate  hahits  soon  after  his  niiuriai^e  with   the 
daughter  of  a  man,   now   dead,   an   old    friend  of  my  father's. 
K(»r  .1  time  Clark   retained   an  excellent   situation  as    clerk,    in 
which  he  li;id  heen  for  a  numher  of  years,  hut   his  (le[)artures 
from    sohriety   hecanu^   so   fretpient    and    hopeless,    that   his   old 
employers  ^vere  forced  to  part  with   him.      From   tliiit  time  his 
declension,  which  appeared  to  hegin  with  liis  marriage,  was  still 
more   fiipid.      For  nearly    four   years  I   had   lost  sight  of   him. 
Now    he   came  before   my  eyes,  so   utterly  degraded,   that   few 
traces   of   what  was    really   human   ri'Uiained   visihle.       I   now 
understood,  without  ne(>d  of  explanation,  tlie  meaning  of  what 
was  before  mc.    This  was  the  husband  and  father  of  those  I  had 
a  short  time  before  relieved,     liiif,  what  was  he  doing  with  tlu^ 
stove?     The  moment  he  saw   nie,   tlu^   change  in   his  counte- 
nance betrayed  his  purpose,  for  I  was  recognized. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  James  Clark  ?  "    said  I  speak- 
ing sternly.     "  What  are  you  doing  with  that  stove?  " 

The  poor  wretcli  stammered  out  son\ething  that  T  did  not  hear 
distinctly,  and  seemed  overwhelmed  with  confusion.    A  moment 


84 


Til  r.  (I  Kc  \'..\  N  c  r  I' 


or  two  lie  stood  irrcsolutr,  and  Jlicii  liiiiiinj,'  iVoiii  inc,  In*  went 
Itiick  towards  tin'  place  he  liad  left,  siayirc  ring  undtT  liis  burden. 
I  walilied  him  wniil  I  saw  liini  (Miler  ilie  Iiownc  where  he  lived. 
1  then  went  on  my  way,  hut  ti 


iirned  hack  on  r( 


fleet 


ion,  a 


fter 


(( 


(;c)in<r  a  Idock  or  two,  thinking  it  possihle  that  Clark  might  make 
another  ("H'ort  to  tarry  out  his  piirijose  of  selling  the  stove,  pro- 
vided hy  the  hand  of  charily  to  ke(<p  his  W'Ce  and  children  from 
Creezing.  On  reaching  the  old  Sugar  House  in  Maker's  Court, 
I  went  lip  to  ihe  room  occupied  hy  ihe  family  of  Clark,  and 
lapi)ed  at  the  door.  It  was  (jiiickly  opened,  and  the  mother 
stood  before  me  wilh  the  tears  rapidly  falling  over  her  pah;  face. 

"•Is  your  husband  hert;  ?  "  I  asked,  and  as  I  spoke  I  leaned 
forward  to  gel  a  view  of  the  room. 

Can  it  l)e  possible !  "  I  exclaimed,  now  seeing  that  the 
place  where  ihe  stove  had  been  standing  was  \acanl.  "Has  he, 
then,  succeeded  in  his  purpose  I '' 

"  Alas,  sir !  it  is  too  true,"  sol)l)ed  the  wretched  woman. 

I  waited  to  see  and  hear  no  more.  Hurrying  down  to  the 
street,  I  went  in  ))ursuit  of  the  wreiched  being,  who  had  become 
so  lost  to  hmuan  feeling,  as  to  do  an  act  of  such  cruel  selfish- 
ness. Kniering  the  main  street,  I  looked  up  and  down,  but 
coidd  see  nothing  of  him.  I  |)assed  to  the  corners,  gazing 
thence  in  all  directions.  Hut  he  was  no  where  in  sight.  Then 
1  came  hack  to  the  Court  and  walked  np  and  down  there  foi 


some   lime  in  expectation  of  his   retur 


rn. 


Not 


a|)pearing  aflei 


the  lapse  of  ten  minutes,  I  went  lo  the  main  street  once  more, 
llunning  my  eyes  far  down  the  line  of  j)avemenl,  I  saw  him 
two  blocks  away,  slowly  advancing  along  tlu?  side-walk.  With 
a  (piick  pace  I  hurried  forward  to  meet  him.  He  saw  me,  as  I 
approached,  and  averting  his  eyes,  tried  to  pass  nie.     But,  I  laid 


my  hand  upon 
an  angrv  voice 


his  urm  with  a  slm 


rp  grip,  saying  as 


I  did 


so,  m 


TllF,   CIRC  KAN    CVV 


8.' 


(( 


Wrclcli !     Wliaf  linvr  vou  I 


ICCIl   (lUllliJ 


1  " 


"  I  (Idii't  kiKtw  ;  "  ln'!ms\vjTC(l,  w  iili  nssmiirj  siirjiiisc,  hnl  look- 
miC  iiwiiy  fi(»iii  iiic  as  lie  spoke — ''  wliiit  riii'Iil  \ on  luivc  ((» iiddrcss 
iiic  ill  iliis  way  Mr. ,  I'm  no  more  a  wrclcli  tliaii  yon  arf."' 

"  Wrclcli !  "  I  repealed,  and  still  more  severely.  "  VVhcre  is 
ilial  slove?" 

"  I  look  it  hiick  again.  Yon  saw  ine  do  that,"  said  lie  wiili 
conlidcncc. 

"  Not  so.  That  was  a  mere  pretence  to  deceive  \nv  ;  T  have 
heeii  to  the  room  in  which  your  jioor  wife  and  civildren  are  freez- 
inu'",  and  there  is  no  stove  there." 

His  connleiiance  instantly  fell. 

"  Now,''  said  I,  and  1  cang-ht  firiidy  hold  of  his  arm;  "take 
me  to  the  place  where  yon  sold  or  pawned  it,  or  T  will  instantly 
have  von  hefore  a   ma<^istrale  on  the  chari^e  of  slealins^.     Thai 


stove  was  not  your  properly 


7? 


My 


manner  as  well  as  my  won 


II 


ds  ali 


irmed  him 


Aft 


er  sornc^ 


moments  of  eml)arrassmenl,  he  stammered  out — 


a 


Its  no  nsi",  Mr, 


the  stove  is  sold,  and  there  is  no  help 


for  it 


>) 


Very  well.     If  it  is  sold,  where  is  the  money?" 
I  didn't  ijet  any  money 


.    15 


"Yon  didn't?" 


"  v..  " 


(( 


)> 


Why  not? 

"  I  ow(?d  a  dollar  and  a  half — and — and —  " 
He  mnmhied  out  the  rest  of  the  sentence  indistinctly. 
"  Let  the  halance  stand  on  a  drinking  acconnt,"  said  I. 
His  silenc*^  confirmed  this  suggestion. 

"Yes;  I  nnderstand  exactly  how  it  is."    I  wont  on.    "Wretch- 
ed man!     Is  it  possihle  that  yon,  James  Clark,  can  have  fallen 


so  low 


?  » 


8u 


THE  CIRCEAN  CUP, 


His  cyi'S  were  now  on  (lie  pavement,  and  he  stood  rehnkt'd 
Ifcfore  nie. 

"  VVIiere  is  the  stove?  "  I  continued.  "  That  I  must,  and  will 
have,  I  don't  care  who  has  it  in  his  possession,  (jo  with  me  to 
tlie  place  at  once.     I  will  l)e  salislicil  with  nolhinui'  less." 

Some  further  hesitation  was  evinced,  and  then  the  luan  turned 
hack  and  conducted  uie  to  a  low  g'rog-shop,  in  a  small  hy -street, 
kepi  hy  an  Irishman. 

*'  It's  in  there,"  said  Clark,  pausing^  a  few  houses  away  and 
pointini,^  to  the  drinkini^-shop.  "  But  it's  no  use  trying  to  gvl 
the  stove.  Its  sold  out-right  to  McClutchen,  and  he'll  never 
give  it  up." 

"  Come  along,"  I  replied — "  And  we'll  see  ahout  that." 

But  Clark  drew  hack. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  along  with  me?  "  said  I. 

"  Its  no  use.     McClutchen  won't  give  up  the  stove." 

"  I'll  see  to  that.  Come.  I  want  ygu  to  face  him.  I  want 
you  to  say  to  him,  in  my  presence,  that  he  hought  the  stove. 
I'll  see  to  the  rest." 

I  was  forced,  at  length,  almost  to  drag  the  poor  degraded  man 
mto  McClulrhen's  den.  The  room  we  entered  was  long  and 
narrow,  with  a  low  ceiling,  hlack  with  dust  and  smoke.  It  was 
divided  into  two  j)arts  hy  a  venitian  screen,  reaching  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  wall  on  either  side.  Occupying  the  front  part, 
was  a  short,  high  counter,  l)ehind  which,  upon  shelves,  were 
arranged  decanters  of  liquor,  with  lemons  between  them  for 
ornament,  and  to  suggest  the  idea  of  punch.  Bottles  of  liciuor 
were  also  in  the  window.  Two  or  three  tables  and  chairs,  with 
a  few  newspapers,  occupied  the  back  part.  Theatre  bills  were 
nailed  against  the  walls,  and  fastened  to  the  screen  I  have 
mentioned. 

Hehind  Oie  counter  of  this  drinking  den,  the  air  of  which  was, 


TlIF,   CI  !U'K  AN    CVV. 


81 


to  nic,  slllliiii,^  fntiii  (lie  fiimcs  of  tobiicco  and  'kkI  whisky,  slootl 
till"  l\»'('[)cr,  ii  l()W-ltro\vt'(l,  sfusiial,  hiiii-ilcj,'  lookiiii?  Iiisliniau. 
Clark  sliniiik  licliiiul  me  as  we  ciilcicd.  The  fi'llow  scrnn'cl  lo 
comprcliciul  ilic  iialurc  of  our  visit,  for  a  most  repulsive  exprcs- 
siun  caiiH^  instantly  into  his  face. 

"  You  know  this  man,  I  presume,"  said  I,  stepping  aside  to 
exhihit  Clark,  who  really  seemed  in  terror  of  thi-  grog-seller, 
and  tried  to  ke(>p  out  of  his  sight. 

"  How  should  I  know  him  }"  was  the  growling  answer. 

"  Every  man  is  presiuueil  to  know  his  work,"  I  could  not,  at 
the  moment  help  saying,  even  at  the  risk  of  personal  iil)use. 

A  flash  of  anger  went  over  the  Irishman's  face.  There  wjis 
a  motion  of  his  lips  as  if  he  were  uhont  to  reply,  hut  not,  proha- 
hly,  (hiding  u  retort  that  suited  him,  he  remained  sili-nl. 

"  You  itought  a  stove  of  this  person,  a  little  while  ago,"  said 
I  positively. 

This  was  received  with  a  dogged  silence. 

"  It  was  not  his  stove."     I  added. 

There  was  a  change  in  the  Irishman's  manner. 

"  Did  not  you  swear  to  me  on  the  Bihie,  Jim  Clark,"  said 
he,  coming  around  from  his  coimter  and  facing  poor  Clark,  "that 
the  stove  was  yours?  " 

"  If  he  did,  he  swore  to  what  was  not  triie,"  s.iid  I.  "  And 
so,"  I  addiul,  sarcastically,  "you  have  a  couunission  from  the 
State  to  swear  your  customers!  Verily!  this  is  a  new  feature  in 
the  dram-selling  husiness." 

"  My  friend,"  replied  McClutchen,  with  forced  cahuness, 
inising  one  of  his  huge  hands  as  he  spoke,  to  give  force  to  hi^ 
words,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  lowering  countenance,  "If  you 
are  not  more  careful  of  your  words  I  will  pitch  you  into  the 
street." 


88 


TllK    CIKCKAN    CUP, 


"  Tliaf  iiiijrlil  Ix'  Ji  l)iHl  (liiy's  work  for  y<ni,"  I  as  caliiily  vr- 
jiliril.     ''  And  so  yon  swori;  this  poor  cn-aturc  !  " 

"Not  on  the  liil»li'   Mr. !     Nol  on  (lie  liiUle,"  saiil 

( "lark  carntstly. 

"On  wliaJ  then?"  I  in(|uirc(l. 

"  It  was  only  a  diclionary,"  replied  Clark. 

McClnlilien,  with  an  uneasy  jrcslure,  retired  again  behind  his 
'Ounter. 

"  A  dictionary  !  "  said  I,  half  anuised  at  this  derlaration. 

"Yes,   Mr. ,  it  was  only  a  dictionary.       I  wouldn't 

have  sworn  on  the  Bihle,"  res[)onded  Clark,  who  now  seenu^d 
iinxions  that  I  should  not  thiidv  he  had  taken  a  solenui  oath  on 
I  he  Holy  Book. 

"Hut  yon  swore  to  a  lie,  it  seems,  yon  driuiken  thief!" 
'•xdainied  McClutchen  angrily.  "Swore  to  a  lie  and  cheated 
me  into  the  haryain." 

"  I  don't  know  about  tho  lie,"  said  Clark,  rallying  a  little. 
••  It  was  my  wife\s  stove ;  and  what  is  her's  is  mine." 

"Your  wife's  ha!  And  is  that  all?"  cried  the  Irishman, 
instantly  brightening.  "Your  wife's!  Oh,  ho!  Troth!  and 
l)e  sure  what's  her's  is  your's  !     So  its  a  bony  Jidy  sale  after  all." 

"So  I  think,"  said  Clark. 

"  And  so  I  don't  think,"  was  my  firm  reply.  "  The  stove 
was  only  loaned  to  your  wife,  and,  as  it  AVas  loaned  through  me, 
[  shall  sec  that  it  goes  back  again  to  the  place  from  which  you 
removed  it." 

"  You'll  have  to  prove  your  ownership,"  said  the  grog-seller, 
impudently.     "  All  a  trumi)ed  up  story.'* 

"  Is  there  an  Alderman's  Ollice  near  by  1 "  This  T  said  in  a 
resolute  tone,  addressing  Clark,  and  taking  a  step  towards  the 
iloor  as  I  spoke. 

"An  Alderman!  Wliat  do  you  want  with  an  Aldermrii?" 
he  asketl  with  a  look  of  alarm. 


Tin:    CIRCKAN    (VV 


89 


"I  merely  wish  lo  have  yon  nrri'stctl  fur  ihcfr,  and  this  man 
us  nn  nccomphce  and  nreiver  of  sioh-n  tjoodx." 

My  h;in(l  wiis  hy  this  tinic  on  the  knolt  of  ilie  door.  I  s'lw  nn 
instant  change  in  ihc  connlenancc  of  MrChitthm,  and  heard  a 
h)\v  seiUenre  of  hiasphcmy  from  his  hps. 

"Clari<!^'  said  he,  and  his  eyj's  «r|it((.i(.(|  wiih  inipolenl  raffe 
as  he  spoke.  '' (io  hack  in  the  yard  and  i^ct  yonr  stosc;  and 
mind  \ c — don't  show  } our  rnrsed  l\u-v  in  this  sliop  a^niin  !  If 
yon  do,  I  won't  be  ans\veral)h"  for  the  conse<|M<'nfe." 

Clark  jjassed  out  lhroni;h  the  hack  door,  whih*  I  remained 
awailin<^  his  return.  lie  was  ahsent  thr«'e  or  four  minutes, 
ihuiny  which  .\h('lutchen  took  the  poor  satisfaction  »)f  ahusinj? 
me  roundly.  This  I  hore  uite  patiently,  havinjj  accoMi|)lishe(l 
my  purpose.  So  soon  as  Clark  came  hack,  carryini;  the  stove  in 
his  arms,  itnd  lookini^  more  ashamed  than  he  had  yet  appeared, 
I  open(>d  the  door  for  him,  and  as  he  passed  out,  I  turned  my 
eyes  upon  the  frrog-shop  keeper,  ami  said — 

"See  here  my  friend;  if  your  lic(>nse  hapjH'ns  not  to  he  nil 
right,  I  would  advise  yon  to  sec  to  it  as  (piickly  as  possible,  as  it 
is  more  than  prohahle  you  will  hear  from  me  before  many  hours 
pass.  It  doesn't  seem  exactly  rii^ht  for  any  tnan  to  tempt  a  poor 
wretch,  who  has  lost  all  control  over  his  d<'praved  appetites,  to 
steal  from  his  wife  and  children,  in  mid-winter,  their  stove  and 
sell  it  for  rum  !  It  doi>sn't  seem  rijifht,  I  say  ;  and  I  cannot  hut 
thiidc  that  there  i.s  a  power  vested  sonu'where  in  our  civil 
authorities  to  pimish  so  flagrant  an  act.  It  can  do  no  harm  at 
least  to  see  how  the  case  stands.  So,  my  friend,  look  to  your- 
self." 

And  I  passed  forth  into  the  street,  and  once  more  l)reathed  tlie 
pure  air.  Clark,  stagfji^ering  along  under  the  stove,  had  already 
gone  the  distance  of  half  a  scpiare  in  the  direction  of  his  home. 
I  followed,  keeping  a  few  rods  behind.     Not  content,  this  time, 


00 


Tlir.    (I  UCKAN    (  11' 


with  srrini,'  liim  filter  llic  old  luiililiiif,'  wlirrc  lir  livr«l,  I  wrnt 
ill  also,  iiiid  krpi  liiin  iiiiilcr  my  vyc  until  \w  (>[h>ui'(I  the  ilimr 
of  liiM  own  room. 

n«'li«'\iinr  thill  ilir  flu'ck  Cliirk  liad  received,  woidd  eirrclu- 
iilly  |)reveii(  liis  iijriiili  iillem|>liiiif  to  sell  the  stove,  I  n»iuliided 
not  to  show  myself  to  liis  fiimily  jiist  iil  tli.'it  time,  Imt  to  ^o  oil 
to  miiiLet,  ;iiid,  lifter  l)reiikfiisl,  to  look  in  Jind  see  if  there  was 
any  hope  of  makini;  a  irood  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  poor 
ini'hriate. 

Il  was  near  ten  o'clock  when  I  called  aronnd  aijain.  I  fonnd 
Mrs.  Clark  alone  with  lu-r  three  children.  The  slove  was  in  its 
jilace,  and  the  air  of  (he  room  at  a  jrenial  temperature.  She 
looked  lip  from  her  sewini;  as  T  entered,  and  I  saw  the  tears 
jjlisleniiiLj  on  her  pale  cheeks. 

''Where  is  your  hnsl>and  !  "  I  asked,  as  I  took  the  chair  slic 
nd'ered  me.      There  were  hill  two  in  the  a|)arlment. 

"  (ione  out,''  she  returned  with  a  heavy,  lliitlj'rinir  ^iir'i. 

''  I  had  hoped  to  lind  him  at  liome,'^  said  I. 

"  He  is  seldom  here,"  she  answered,  with  another  deep  sijjli. 

"  lias  he  any  employment  ?" 

Mrs.  Clark  shook  her  head. 

"  Unhappy  man!  How  low  he  has  falh'ii !  And  in  so  short 
a  time.      T  conid  not  have  helieved  it." 

"And  it  is  all  my  fault!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clark  with  ti  siui- 
den  w  ildness  of  manner.  "  All  my  fault !  T  tempted  him  and 
he  fell  !  Would  to  heaven  I  had  died  ere  that  fatal  hour,  when, 
hko  a  Syr«'n,  I  lured  him  from  the  Wiiy  of  safety,  and  jdaced 
that  cu|)  to  his  lips  to  drink,  which  changes  the  human  into  the 
hcstial." 

Snrpri/e  at  so  unexpected  a  declaration  kept  inc  for  sonic  time 
fsilent.     Mrs.  Clark  wept  passionately  for  many  minutes. 


TlIK   rilK   T.AN   CUP. 


91 


"  Siirrl\ ,  iiiadani,"  said  I  nl  Itiiirfli,  "  voii  Maine  voiiiscif 
too  s«'v«'rcl\  /' 

"  I  was  yolinif  and  fodlisli,"  slu>  replied,  iMMiirnfnlly.  "  All! 
litth;  (Ircaiited  (  that  <'i)iisiM|iieii(-es  so  awful  could  llnw  inmi  ko 
Hinall  an  ad.  Little  dreamed  I  tlial  tliere  was  siu'li  a  power  of 
evil  fascination  concealed  in  tli(<  stiiiiiilaliiiir  cup,  I  >o  madly 
])Iace(|  to  his  lips.  Hut  " — and  lier  manner  clianncd — *■'  I  am 
bpeakin;,'  va<,niely." 

"  Will  yon  mil  speak  in  plainer  Ian<iiiai,'e  ?  "  s;ii<l  I,  after  wnit- 
inji^  for  some  tini(>  for  lier  to  resume. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  my  face.  Their  e\|)ressi(iii  was  sad 
heyond  all  conception. 

"  Do  you  rememher  .James  (en  years  nifo?"  she  asked. 

"  I  remeiiil)er  him  w«'ll,"  was  my  answer. 

"  Few  helter  men  lived.  I  do  not  think  he  had  a  fault.  In 
all  his  hahits  he  was  reijular,  even  to  ahstemionsness." 

"  I  never  heard  of  his  touchin<r  liipior  l«'fore  his  marriaj^e," 
said  I. 

A  shade  of  airony  went  over  the  poor  wife's  face ;  her  lips 
quivered,  and  the  tears  came  again  to  her  eyes. 

"  Let  me  ti-ll  to  you,  what  I  have  never  told  to  a  livinc;"  soul 
before,"  said  she,  at  length,  ralminu!'  the  wild  motions  of  her 
heart  hy  a  strong  ("Hort.  "  'J'iiat  fatal  secret  has  het'n  locked  up 
for  years  in  my  hosom.  James  has  never  iipltiaided  me  in  words 
• — but,  oh  !  has  not  his  fall  bei'ii  to  me  a  daily  rebuke  beyond 
the  power  of  language  to  co'^vey  ?  But,  I  will  comjmse  myself, 
while  I  relate  to  you  an  act  of  folly  and  madness,  the  direful 
ronseipiences  of  which,  in  all  (heir  varied  forms,  it  is  hardly 
within  the  power  of  (he  imagination  to  conceive.  From  my 
fother's  liOiise,  intoxicating  litpiors  w(Me  never  banished.  My 
father,  as  you  know,  was  a  man  of  even  passions,  and  great  self- 
control.     Lie  had  a  strong  will,  by  which  he  was  able  to  limit 


02 


THE  CIRCEAN  CUP, 


i 


I 


liimself  in  any  intlulgence  of  mind  or  l)oily.  His  theory  was, 
tliiit  a  littlr  luamly  taken  now  and  then,  was  good  for  the  sys- 
tem, and,  in  his  own  case,  he  carried  out  this  system.  From 
childhood,  my  eyes  were  fainihar  with  decanters,  and  g-lasses; 
they  formed  the  chief  ornament  of  our  sidehoard.  When  the 
puldic  mind  hegan  to  he  turned  toward  the  evils  of  drunkenness, 
efforts  were  made  to  enhst  my  father  on  the  side  of  the  temper- 
ance reformation.  Rut,  he  met  the  overtures  with  a  stronsr 
repulse.  In  fact,  he  was  offended.  He  spoke  of  these  over- 
tures in  his  family,  and  liis  strong  expressions  of  contempt  for 
men  too  weak  in  the  head  to  hear  a  glass  of  brandy,  fixed  them- 
selves in  my  mind,  and  had  their  effect  upon  my  feelings. 

"  As  I  passed  up  from  girlhood  to  womanhood,  young  men 
began  to  visit  at  my  father's  house.  Among  them  there  was 
Mr.  Clark,  toward  whom  my  feelings  of  preference  leaned  from 
the  beginning.  As  was  the  custom  with  my  father,  brandy  was 
set  out  on  the  occasion  of  James'  first  visit.  But  he  respectfully 
declined  taking  any.  'What!'  exclaimed  my  father;  'Are 
you  one  of  these  cold  water  men.'  There  was  a  tone  of  deris- 
ion in  his  voice. 

"  I  saw  a  bright  spot  burn  on  the  cheek  of  James.  He  merely 
answered,  '  I  never  drink  brandy.'  '  Take  some  good  old  Irish 
whisky,  then,'  said  my  father.  But  James  declined  touching 
any  thing,  and  my  father,  in  an  under  'one,  muttered  something 
about '  Milk  and  water  chaps,'  that  I  did  not  hear  distinctly. 

"  To  me,  the  refusal  of  James  to  drink  with  my  fother,  seem- 
ed a  little  strange,  and  I  felt  annoyed  by  it.  I  liked  him,  and, 
therefore,  felt  the  more  annoyed  that  he  should  do  any  thing 
that  did  not  fully  harmonize  with  the  views  and  feelings  of  my 
panmt.  At  subsequent  visits,  in  the  presence  of  other  young 
men  who  took  brandy  and  water  with  my  father,  James  steadily 
maintained  his  abstemiousness,  not,  however,  without  subjecting 


THE  CIRCF.AN   CUP. 


98 


•hinff 
cth 

y. 

seoni- 
11,  and, 
ly  thing 
s  of  my 
young 
steadily 
)jecting 


himself  to  lailery,  and  to  the  imputation  of  hcing  a  little  weak- 
headed.  All  this  worried  me,  especially,  as  he  continued  to 
be  my  favorite. 

'•  On  a  certain  occasion,  a  gay  cousin  plagued  mc  a  good  deal 
ahout  James,  and  was  particularly  sarcastic  on  the  subject  of  his 
water-drinking  habits.  I  became,  at  last,  so  nua-h  fretted,  that  I 
secretly  resolved  to  reform  him  in  this  particular,  if  there  were 
power  ill  a  woman  over  one  wlio,  it  was  j)lain,  regarded  her 
fiivor  iis  no  liglu  thing.  So,  ut  his  next  visit,  I  brought  him  a 
waiter  on  v  iiich  was  a  decanter  of  brandy,  a  tumltler,  and  a 
small  pitcher  of  water.  *  You'll  lake  something  from  me,  I 
know,'  said  I  with  a  smile,  the  most  winning  and  irresistil)le  I 
could  put  on.  'No,  not  even  from  you,'  he  replied,  witliout 
hesitation,  smiling  in  his  turn.  '  Not  from  me  ! '  I  atfected  to 
he  surprized,  and  slightly  hurt.  He  shook  his  head,  still  smiling 
pleasantly.  '  Do  take  some,  just  for  7/iy  sake  ! '  I  urged.  But 
I  could  not  move  him.  I  was  disappointed  at  my  failure,  and 
coidd  not  help  showing  what  T  felt,  even  though  I  tried  to  hide 
my  real  feelings.  That  was  the  most  uncomfortable  evening 
we  had  yet  pass(>d  together. 

"  My  woman's  pride  was  now  piqued.  I  had  miscalculated 
mv  power  over  James,  and  was  hurt  and  mortified  at  my  failure. 
It  seemed  like  such  a  little  thinsj.  What  harm  M'as  there  in 
taking  a  glass  of  brandy  ?  Was  he  any  better  than  my  father  ? 
The  more  I  permitted  my  thoughts  to  brood  over  the  matter,  the 
more  uncomfortable  did  I  feel. 

"  Not  many  weeks  after  the  failure  of  this  attempt  upon 
James,  I  received  from  him  a  proposal  for  my  hand.  Had  there 
been  no  inclination  hv*  my  own  to  regard,  the  resj)onse  would 
have  been  inuuediate.  But  my  parents  were  to  be  consulted  on 
so  grave  a  matter ;  and  so  I  asked  a  few  days  for  reflection.  I 
rememl)er,  as  if  it  were  yesterda}',  the  evening  he  came  to  re 


04 


THK    CIRCE  AN    CUP, 


♦.. 


ccivc  my  nn^wcr,  \l  was  favoiahlc,  of  conisc.  My  father  said 
s<>iii('lliii»!4'  alxiiit  his  (iiiccr  notions,  hut  liad  iiolhinLT  serious  to 
(»l»jci'(.  'I'he  chaiaclcr  of  Jaines  stood  fair,  he  was  imhistrioiis 
ami  solicr,  and  wa'^  in  the  rcc('i|)l  of  a  li'ood  incoiiio  as  ch-rk.  In 
our  family  the  match  was  con'^idcrt'd  a  very  yodd  one.  So,  I 
wa^  pit-pared  when  he  caux',  to  aiiswer  in  the  alVninative. 

"■  I  was  sittin!»-  in  our  little  [)arlor,  when  he  came  in.  As  soon 
as  my  eyes  rested  on  his  face,  I  saw  that  suspense  had  tiiken 
away  its  usual  hriyht,  cheerful  e\'j)res>iion ;  and,  instantly,  I 
formed  the  thouii^htless  resolution  to  take  an  ad\antai;"e  of  him. 
I  saw,  with  a  woman's  (|uick  intention,  that  he  was  far  enoui;h 
in  earnest  on  llie  snhject  of  his  application  (or  my  hand,  to  he 
willini;  to  make  some  sacrifices  to  gain  it.  I,  iheri'fore,  received 
him  with  more  than  usual  reserve.  A  few  minutes  were  passijd 
in  an  exchange  of  the  common-places  of  'he  day.  He  was, 
evidently,  under  a  pressure.  His  voice  had  lost  its  clear,  musi- 
cal intonation;  and  what  he  did  say  was  uttered  in  an  ahsent 
mavmer.  I  was  perfectly  at  ease,  though  I  ailected  euiharrass- 
nient  and  reserve. 

"  James  had  heen  seated  only  a  few  nu'nuti>s,  when  I  arose, 
and  gomg  to  the  sidelnoard,  set  a  decanter  of  li([Uor  with  glasses 
and  water  on  a  small  tray :  These  I  presented  to  him,  assuming, 
as  I  did  so,  a  certain  gravity  of  manner.  '  Try  a  glass  of  fath- 
er's fine  old  cogniac,'  said  I. 

"  Poor  fellow !  He  hesitated  only  a  moment ;  but  the 
struggle  in  iiis  nu'nd  was  violent,  though  hrief.  Poming  out  a 
small  portion  of  the  brandy,  he  added  a  little  water,  and  drank 
it  down.  An  expression  of  natural  disgust  flitted  over  his  coun- 
tenance as  he  removed  the  glass  from  his  li})s.  '  How  do  you 
like  it?'  said  I,  with  an  approving  smile.  'I  don't  profess  to 
be  a  judge  of  these  matters,'  was  his  reply.  '  I  should  never 
l>e  a  drunkard  from  the  love  of  liquor.' 


l\ 

lu- 
ll )U 

to 


TMK    CIRCF.AN    CUP. 


95 


"  Then;  WJi>  a  ^low  of  triiiinpli  at  my  heart — weak,  Ibolish 
heart  ! — as  I  luoviil  away  l^<  replace  the  Hay  iii)()li  lh(^  sideboard. 
I  stood  for  a  few  inomeiits  willi  my  hack  toward  him,  hurriedly 
debating  whether  I  slioidd  at  once  announce  the  favoraltle  result 
of  his  application,  or  wait  until  he  asked  for  my  decision. 
Deciding  not  to  wait,  I  turned,  and  placing  my  hand  in  his, 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  treml»led  with  the  agitation  of  my 
happy  he;nt — '  It  is  yours.' 

"•  Quickly  grasping  that  hand,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  kiss- 
ed it  fervently.  And  yet,  I  felt  a  slight  chill  of  disaj)pointment. 
His  reception  of  my  answer  was  not  so  full  of  enthusiasm  as  I 
had  been  led  to  anticipate.  Many  happier  evenings  had  we 
])assed  together  than  that  one  proved  to  be.  I  was  conscious  of 
having  taken  an  undue  advantage  over  him,  and  he  seemed  to 
b(>  thinking  of  the  same  thing.  Once  he  referred  to  the  act,  in 
these  words — '  Your  experiment  was  a  dangerous  one,  Mary. 
It  might  have  been  tried  on  one  whose  appetite  needed  any 
thing  but  excitement.     Happy  is  it  for  both  of  us  that  I  have  a 


-L-  J 


natural  dislike  for  stinnilating  drinks 

"  His  words  rebuked  me,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  what  I  had 
done.  I  fell,  that  I  had  iicted  unfairly,  and  ihat  I  must  be  a 
sutTerer  in  Ins  good  opinion.  That  night,  I  «ried  for  an  hour 
before  going  to  sleep.  It  seemed  as  if  a  cloud  were  over  me, 
and  a  luvivy  hand  laid  upon  my  bosom.  What  would  I  not 
have  given  to  have  recalled  that  act.  In  the  iiiidsl  of  my  un- 
hapj)y  feelings  came  intruding  itself  the  thought  that  James, 
from  this  little  beginning,  niighl  go  on,  step  by  step,  and  fall  olV, 
finally  into  intemiM-riince.  I  shuddered  as  I  pushed  this  thought 
aside.  But,  it  returned  again,  and  from  that  time,  li;uinted  me 
day  and  night. 

"  When  James  called  in  on  the  next  evening,  my  father  was 


96 


THE    CIRCEAN    CUP. 


in  the  parlor.  '  Well,  my  young  niiin/  suid  my  fadur,  'so  you 
have  taken  a  strong  lancy  to  this  young-  laily  of  mine.'  Well, 
all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  hope  she  will  make  as  good  a  wife  as 
she  has  been  a  child.  As  for  you,  wv  welcome  you  into  our 
family  with  a  right  good  will.  And  now,  I  shall  insist  on 
your  taking  a  glass  of  brandy  with  me,  if  you  never  do  tlu;  like 
again.  Oh  !  Iiow  inlen>ie  was  my.  sudden  desire  that  James 
would  fnially  decline  this  invitation.  Not  so.  Without  the 
slightest  aj)par(>nt  hesitation  he  step{)cd  to  the  sideboard,  and 
joined  my  lalher  in  a  glass  of  brandy. 

"J"'roiii  that  lime  the  door  was  open.  At  his  next  visit,  my 
father  did  not  ha |. pen  to  be  present.  Once  or  twice  during  the 
evening  I  saw  the  eyes  of  James  wander  toward  the  sideboard  ; 
hut,  T  did  not  invite  him  to  take  any  thing.  When  next  lu;  met 
my  father,  the  invitation  to  drink  was  renewed,  and  accepted 
without  hesitation.  As  I  made  it  a  point,  when  alone  with  him 
in  the  parlor,  not  to  oiler  him  any  thing,  only  a  few  weeks 
elapsed  l)efore  he  made  free  to  help  himself  without  an  invitation 
— and  this  he  continued  to  do  regularly  at  every  subse(iuent  visit. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  nmch  I  was  troubled  at  all  this.  Yei, 
what  could  I  say  I 

"On  the  night  of  our  marriage^,  James  indulged  himself  so 
freely  as  to  attract  attention.  I  was  deeply  mortified,  and  trouli- 
Icd  still  more.  A  well  supplied  sideboard  was  one  of  our  house- 
keeping a|)[)endages,  and  regularly  at  dinner  time  James  took 
his  glass  of  brandy,  I  soon  bi-came  alarmed,  and  ventured  to 
remonstrate,  but,  alas  !  It  was  too  lale  !  " 

Mrs.  Clark  here  burst  iiUo  tears,  and  sobbed  for  some  mo- 
ments, while  her  little  children,  who  had  gathered  around, 
gazed  upon  her  with  looks  of  wonder. 

"  I  will  not,"  she  resumed,  "  trace  down  the  successive  steps 
of  his  dt'dension.     Enough,  that  we  have,  now,  the  dreadful 


Su 
with 
/ns  w 

P( 

I  un( 

a 

face  J 
"I 

after 
An( 

wall, 
IslJ 

this  nil 

a 

''ngerlj 
"p  at 


THE    CIRCE  AN    CUP. 


97 


result;  and  that  I  ain  guilty  of  having  tcinptod  him  from  tho 

path  of  safety.     His  hlood  is  on  my  head.     Oh,  Mr. ! 

Physical  degradation  and  sulFering  are  nothing  to  the  fingiiish  of 
mind  I  endure  in  view  of  the  fejirfnl  responsiltilily  under  which 
I  am  crushed  down  in  sj)irit.  By  all  this  ruin,  I  am  the  guilty 
agent.  The  nuse  with  which  my  poor  hushand  is  cursed,  I  call- 
ed down  upon  his  head.  What  would  I  not  sidl'er ;  wluit  would 
I  not  sicrillce  to  save  him?  Even  life  itself  I  would  cheer- 
fully lay  down,  would  that  restore  to  him  what  he  has  lost." 

At  this  mouH'ut  the  door  was  oj)ened,  and  Clark  came  in 
([uickly.  There  was  an  expression  of  alarm  on  his  face.  He 
nodded  to  nu;  slightly  ;  then  glanced  earnestly  around  I  Ik-  room. 

"What  is  the  matter  James?  "  asked  his  wife ;  her  counte- 
nances rellecling  the  look  of  fear  that  was  in  his. 

"  I  don't  know  Pm  sure,"  lu;  returned,  in  a  half  ahsent  way. 
And,  his  eyes  wandered  from  side  to  side,  with  a  restless  motion. 

Suddenly,  as  his  gaze  fell  to  the  lh)or,  near  his  fvvt,  he  started 
with  a  low  cry  of  fear,  and  retreated  hehind  the  chair  in  which 
nis  wife  was  sitting. 

Poor  Mrs.  Clark  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  this ;  hut 
I  understood  it  too  well. 

"James!  James!  What  ails  j'ou?"  she  exclaimed,  her  pale 
face  growing  paler;  "  Are  you  loosing  your  senses?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  There  !  It's  coming  right  over  your  shoulder 
after  me ! " 

And  he  sprung  away  and  crej)t  hehind  the  hed  close  in  to  the 
wall,  crouching  down  almost  to  the  floor. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  cast  upon  me  hy  Mrs.  Clark  at 
this  moment.     Her  face  was  like  ashes. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  What  has  come  over  him  ?  "  she 
eagerly  interrogated  me,  catching  hold  of  my  arm,  and  looking 
up  at  me  with  an  imploring  look. 


i 


1)8 


THE    CIRCEAN    CUP. 


i 


"  He  must  have  a  physician  inunecliately."  I  replied,  "  I 
will  go  for  one." 

"  Oh  !  don't  leave  me  !  Don't  leave  me  !  "  she  cried,  cling- 
ing to  my  arm.     "  For  mercy's  sake  don't  leave  me  !  " 

"Can  your  little  hoy  find  the  way  to  Doctor  M 's?"    I 

jisked,  after  reilecting  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes  sir ;  if  you  will  direct  him,"  she  answered. 

Taking  a  scrap  of  paper  from  my  pocket,  I  wrote  a  hurried 
note,  and  gave  it  to  the  child,  who  had  come  to  my  place  of 
business  a  few  days  before,  desiring  him  to  take  it  to  the  office 

of  Dr.  M ,  and  give  it  to  any  one  he  might  find  there.     As 

the  little  boy  left  to  go  on  this  errand,  Clark  came  out  from  be- 
hind the  bed,  and  moved  towards  the  centre  of  the  room,  look- 
ing anxiously  and  guardedly  around  him. 

"jVIr.  Clark,"  said  I,  going  up  and  taking  his  hand,  which  I 
found  to  be  trembling  with  a  low,  nervous  thrill,  "  Don't  let 
your  imagination  deceive  yon.     There  is  no  reality  in  this." 

But,  my  words  did  not  reassure  him.  He  still  glanced,  fear- 
fully, from  side  to  side.  Suddenly,  while  I  yet  held  his  hand, 
he  flung  himself  backward,  with  an  exclamation  of  terror  still 
wilder  than  he  had  yet  uttered,  retreating  towards  the  wall,  and 
with  his  hands  eagerly  endeavoring  to  beat  off  some  terrible 
object  conjured  up  by  his  O'seased  imagination. 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  mean !  What  does  it  mean  !  "  came 
anxiously  from  the  lips  of  tlie  poor  wife,  while  tears  gushed 
from  her  eyes. 

"Nothing  shall  hurt  yoi ,"  said  I,  going  up  to  where  Clark 
had  shrunk  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  every  limb  trembling 
like  an  aspen. 

"Oh!  take  it  off!"  fairly  yelled  the  miserable  creature. 
"  Take  it  off!     Don';,  you  see  that  it  is  strangling  me?  " 


lay 


THE    CIRCE  AN    CUP. 


99 


Ik 


If 

Is 


All'fcting   to  rcinovo  somctliing   from   his   neck,   I   said: — 
"  There  ;  I  have  taken  it  away." 

This  satisfied  him  for  a  mompnt,  hut,  only  for  a  moment ; 
looking  down  towards  his  feet,  he  gave  another  cry,  nnd,  start- 
ing up,  nm  to  the  hed,  and  tlirowing  himself  thereon,  huried  his 
fave  amid  the  clothes.  Here  he  hiy  and  panted  like  a  frightened 
child. 

Hriefly  and  hurriedly,  I  now  explained  to  Mrs.  Clark,  tin; 
nature  of  her  husbancrs  malady,  and  how  it  woidd  progress  to  a 
crisis,  which  might  end  in  death.  I  never  saw  such  a  look  of 
mingled  anguish  and  fear  upon  any  countenance  as  was  exhil)it- 
ed  in  hers. 

With  his  face  covered  up  hy  the  hed  clothes,  Clark  now  lay 
imtil  the  appearance  of  his  child,  who  brought  with  him  a  student 

from  the  office  of  Dr.  M ;  the  Doctor  himself  being  out  on 

his  regular  professional  visits.  I  then  retired  for  the  purpose  of 
procuring  a  suitable  person  to  remain  with  Clark  during  the  pro- 
gress of  his  fearful  malady.  On  reflection,  however,  I  deemed 
it  best  to  have  him  removed  to  the  Alms  House,  and  accordingly 
obtained  a  permit  for  that  purpose.  On  my  return,  I  found  him 
in  a  paroxysm  of  terror.  It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that 
the  young  student  coidd  keep  him  in  the  room.  This  excite- 
ment sul)sided  after  I  came  in,  and  while  the  sufferer  lay  ex- 
hausted upon  the  bed,  I  held  a  consultation  with  his  wretched 
wife  about  removing  him  across  the  Schuylkill.  To  this  she,  at 
first,  objected  positively ;  but,  as  the  nature  of  the  disease  and 
the  character  of  its  terrible  development  was  more  fully  explain- 
ed to  her  by  the  student  and  myself,  she  at  length  reluctantly 
consented.  I  immediately  procured  a  cab,  and,  in  company 
with  the  young  medical  attendant,  conveyed  him  to  the  Block- 
lay  Alms  House. 

The  history  of  this  man's -fall,  as  related  to  me  by  his  wile, 


\ 


100 


THE  CIRCEAN  CUP. 


affected  me  deeply,  and  more;  than  usual  interest  in  the  case  was 
awakened  in  luy  jnind.  Every  day  I  sent  over  to  the  Alms 
House  for  inleliif^ence  as  to  his  condition,  and,  on  the  second  day 
was  pleased  to  learn  that  he  had  passed  the  crisis  of  the  disease, 
and  was  safe.  Safe  !  Alas !  no !  There  were  fearful  dangers 
yet  ahead.  Safe  from  death  ;  hut  not  safe  from  the  master-vice 
m  whose  power  he  had  heen  for  so  many  years.  But,  I  had, 
ere  this,  resolved  to  drag  him  out  of  the  horrihle  pit  and  miry 
clay  into  which  he  had  fallen,  if  that  were  in  the  range  of 
human  power.  So,  on  the  third  day  I  went  out  to  see  him. 
Exhausted  from  the  fierce  struggle  through  which  he  had  pass- 
ed, I  found  the  wretched  man.  I  sat  down  hy  his  side,  and 
taking  his  hand  inquired  as  to  how  he  felt.  Instead  of  answer- 
ing me,  he  turned  his  head  away. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  much  hetter,"  said  I. 

A  long  sigh  hreathed  from  his  lips,  and  then  he  murmured  in 
a  low,  sad  voice, — 

"  It  would  have  heen  better  if  I  had  died." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Clark,  do  not  say  that,"  I  returned  quickly. 
"  You  have  much  to  live  for." 

"  Me  !  "     My  remark  seemed  strange  to  him,  and  he  turned 
upon  me  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  Yes,  you,  James  Clark !  you  have  much  to  live  for." 

"  My  wife  and  children,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  sadly. 

"  Yes." 

"  Little  good  have  I  done  them,  so  far.    Better,  far  better,  that 
I  had  died!" 

"  Let  the  pa.st  evil  suffice,  James.     The  future  is  all  before 
you.     Live  a  new  life." 

"  Impossible !  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  This  cursed  appetite  !  "  , 


w 

Pl 
ai 

or 

W] 

stil 


THE  CIRCE  AN  CUP. 


101 


"  Resist  and  deny  it." 

"I  cannot.  Its  power  over  n\v  is  entire.  Iluve  I  not  striven 
against  it  a  hundred  and  a  Iiundnd  (iuies?  " 

"Try  again.  Go  forth  from  this  sick  bed,  sustained  hy  the 
power  of  a  strong  resolution." 

"  I  have  no  power  in  myself.  I  am  weak  as  a  cliild.  In  .i 
little  while,  ('  >  fiery  thirst  that  has  been  consuming  me  will 
return,  and  then  I  will  be  swept  away  as  by  the  force  of  a  dowr^- 
sweeping  current." 

"  You  have  said  truly,"  I  replied  :  ^  You  have  no  power  in 
yourself  to  resist  evil.  No  one  has.  All  power  of  resistance 
comes  from  God.     Repose  in  his  strength  and  you  arc  safe." 

"God  help  me!"  exclaimed  the  imhappy  man,  with  a  sud- 
den, despairing  appeal,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  upward. 

"  And  God  will  help  you,"  said  I  confidently.  "  He  is  ever 
ready  to  help  ail  who  look  to  him." 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  indeed  live  a  new  life !  "  was  exclaimed 
eagerly.  "  If  I  could  bring  light  and  comfort  back  again  to  my 
dark,  desolate  dwelling,  I  think  I  would  be  the  happiest  man 
alive." 

"  You  can !  You  can  !  Use  but  the  means  to  strengthen 
the  good  resolution  of  the  present  hour.  Show  by  your  acts, 
that  you  are  in  earnest,  and  then  both  God  and  your  fellow  men 
will  sustain  you  in  your  weakness." 

"  What  shall  I  do?"  he  eagerly  inquired. 

"  The  first  step  for  one  like  you  to  take,"  said  I — "  for  one 
who  has  lost  the  power  of  rational  self-control,  is  to  sign  the 
pledge.  Then  you  come  at  once  into  the  sphere  of  temperance, 
and  wnll  have  a  hundred  supporters  where  you  would  not  have 
one  without.  The  act  will  bring  you  into  Inunediate  association 
with  temperance  men,  and  they  will  hold  you  up  until  you  are 
strong  enough  to  stand  yourself." 


^ 


102 


THF:   CIRC  KAN   CUP, 


!| 


"  Hrlnjj;  me  tlie  plcdijc,  and  I  will  siyii  it,"  he  cried  eagerly, 
a.s  if  he  felt  this  tu  be  his  last  jiope. 

I  wns  prepared  for  him.     Drawing  forth  a  pledge,  a  pocket 
ink-stand  and  a  pen,  I  put  it  at  once  in  his  power  (o  act  upon 
his  good  resolution.    Without  a  uiomenis'  hesitation,  he  suhscriJi- 
ed  his  naiiu*. 

"  There  are  brighter  days  in  store  for  you,"  said  I,  grasping 
his  hand  and  shaking  it  warmly.  "  You  can  now  say,  with  one 
of  old  time — Rejoice  not  over  me,  0,  mine  enemy  !  For,  though 
1  fall,  yet  shall  I  rise  again." 

I  left  him  soon  after,  pronn'sing  to  call  in  a  carriage  on  the 
next  day,  and  take  him  home  to  his  family. 

The  meeting  i)etween  Clark  and  his  wife — to  the  latter  I  had 
conveyed  intelligence  of  her  husbamrs  good  j)urposes — was 
affecting  in  the  extreme.  I  left  them  in  each  other's  arms, 
promising  to  call  in  during  the  day  to  have  some  talk  al)out  the 
future.  When  I  did  call,  I  was  prepared  to  oiler  Clark  a  place 
at  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  so  soon  as  he  was  well  enough  to 
accept  of  it. 

That  place  he  lias  fdled  ever  since,  and  now  receives  seven 
hundred  dollars,  instead  of  four.  But  of  all,  he  has  religiously 
kept  his  pledge.  I  need  not  describe  the  change  at  home.  That 
can  be  readily  imagined. 

Let  the  story  be  a  warning  to  all.  Seek  not  to  draw  aside 
any  one  from  the  way  of  temperance,  for  that  is  the  only  path 
of  safety. 

As  for  the  grog-seller,  McClutchen,  so  soon  as  leisure  gave 
the  opportunity,  I  tinned  my  thoughts  toward  him  ;  but  he 
had  taken  counsel  of  prudence,  and  was  not  to  be  found.  Not 
Itcing,  in  all  probability,  a  legalized  poor-house  and  jail-popu- 
lator,  man-killer  and  maimer,  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  avoid 
meeting  the  offended  justice  (!)  of  the  state. 


% 


THE    DRUNKARD'S    HOME. 


BY    MKS.    JANE    C.    CAMPBELL 


Of  nil  (lie  wo,  and  wnnt,  and  wrcfclu'dnoss,  which  awaken 
our  compiission  ;  of  all  the  sccncos  of  misery  Avhich  call  so 
loudly  for  sympathy  ;  there  is  none  that  so  harrows  up  the  feel- 
ings as  the  Drunkard's  Home  !  Look  at  him  who  hegan  life 
with  the  love  of  friends,  the  admiration  of  society,  tlie  prospect 
of  extensive  usefulness;  look  at  him  in  after  years,  when  he 
has  learned  to  love  the  draught,  which,  we  shudder  while  we 
say  it,  reduces  him  to  the  level  of  the  hrute.  Where  is  now 
his  usefulness?  Where  his  admiration,  where  the  love,  that 
onc<;  were  his  ?  Love  !  none  hut  the  love  of  a  wife,  or  a  child, 
can  cling  to  him  in  his  degradation.  Look  at  the  woman,  who, 
when  she  repeated  "  for  better  for  worse,"  would  have  shrunk 
with  terror  had  the  faintest  shadow  of  the  "  worse,"  fallen  upon 
her  young  heart.  Is  that  she  who  on  her  hridal  day  was  adorn- 
ed with  such  neatness  and  taste  ?  Ah  me,  what  a  sad  change  ! 
And  the  children,  for  whom  he  thanketh  God,  at  their  l)irth ; 
the  little  ones  of  whom  he  had  been  so  proud,  whom  he  had 
dandled  on  his  knee,  and  taught  to  lisp  the  endearing  name  of 
father — see  them  trembling  before  him,  and  endeavoring  to 
escape  his  violence. 


lot 


Til  K    DUl    N  K  ARD'S    li  oM  F, . 


i 


Oh  (tufl,  hn\v  piiy  ou  llic  Dninhunrs  Ifuinrf  Tlic  arrist  has 
well  (old  Ill's  sloi'v,  iind  who  that  looks  ii|)oii  it  hut  woiilil  (car- 
itiffly  liiin  aside  from  the  lirsl  step  (o  ruin  J 

VVc  (oo  have  a  (ale  lo  tell,  w  liich  it  pains  us  to  acknowiedgi", 
(-oMiains  mure  Iriilli  than  ficlioii. 

James  Boynion  was  tlu;  fnsi  horn  of  his  pari'nts,  and  a  proud 
and  happy  molhcr  was  Mrs.  Uoynion,  when  her  friends  <ra(herod 
aromid  her  to  look  at  her  pretty  hahe.  Carefully  was  he  tended, 
and  all  his  infantile  winnini,''  ways  were  treasured  as  so  many 
|)roofs  of  his  powers  of  endearment. 

In  wisdom  has  the  Almiifhiy  hidden  the  deep  secrets  of  futu- 
rity from  mortal  ken  ;  when  the  mother  fust  folds  her  infiuit  lo 
her  heart,  could  she  look  ihrouyh  the  long  vista  of  years,  and 
see  the  sulfering',  the  sin,  the  shame,  which  may  he  the  portion 
of  lier  child,  would  slu'  not  ask  God  in  mercy  to  take  the  infant 
(o  himseli  (  \Vould  she  not  imrepiniiiiily,  nay,  thankfidly, 
hear  all  tin;  agony  of  seeing  lu-r  lillle  one,  with  straightened 
limhs,  and  folded  hands,  and  shrouded  Ahui,  carried  from  her 
hosom  to  its  hahy-grave?  And  yet,  not  one  of  all  llu'  thousands 
who  are  steeped  in  wickedness  and  crime,  hut  a  mother's  heart 
has  gladdened  when  the  soft  eye  first  looked  into  hers,  and  the 
soft  cheek  first  nestled  on  lu-r  own.  And,  slill  more  awful 
thought !  not  one  of  all  these  Pariahs  of  society  hut  has  an  jni- 
mortal  soul,  to  save  which,  the  Son  of  God  left  his  glory,  and 
agonized  upon  the  cross  ! 

James  grew  up  a  warm  lu'arted  hoy,  and  among  his  young 
companions  he  was  a  universal  favorite.  "  Jim  lioynton  is  too 
good-natured  to  refuse  doing  anything  we  ask,"  said  Ned  Gran- 
ger one  day  to  a  school-fellow  who  feared  that  James  would  uot 
join  a  parly  of  rather  douhtful  character,  which  was  forming  for 
what  they  called  a  frolic.  And  this  was  the  truth.  Here  lay 
the  secret  of  Boynton's  weakness — he  was  too  good-natured  ; 


secret  oi 


was  li 
frank 
hospit 
in  lo\ 
the  h 
less  w 
and  t 
heart, 
of  tll( 

Afr( 
his  bri 
the  h 
blest 
make 
"  Net 
hori/o 


THE   DRUNKARD'S  II(3ME. 


lOf) 


for  this  very  desimhlo  and  Inily  ami;vl)le  quality,  unless  united 
with  Ihnmess  of  character,  is  often  productive  of  evil.  But  we 
pass  over  his  boyish  life,  and  look  at  him  in  early  manhood. 

He  has  a  fhie  figure,  with  a  luindsome  inleUig'ent  counte- 
nance, and  his  manners  have  received  titeir  tone  and  polish  from 
a  free  intercourse  in  refined  circles.  He  passed  his  college  ex- 
anu'nation  with  credit  to  himself;  but,  from  sheer  indecision  of 
character,  hesitated  in  choosing  a  profession.  At  this  time,  an 
uncle,  who  resided  in  the  South,  was  about  retiring  from  mer- 
cantile life,  and  he  proposed  that  James  should  enter  with  him 
as  a  junior  partner,  while  he  would  remain  for  a  year  or  two  to 
give  his  nephew  the  lienefit  of  his  experience.  The  business 
was  a  lucrative  one,  and  the  proposal  was  accepted. 

James  left  his  home  at  the  North,  and  went  to  try  his  fortunes 
amid  new  scenes  and  new  temptations.  His  uncle  received  him 
warndy,  for  the  old  man  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  James 
was  his  god-child.  His  uncle's  position  in  society,  and  his  own 
frank  and  gentlemanly  demeanor,  won  him  ready  access  to  the 
hospitality  of  southern  friends,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  fell 
in  love  with  a  pretty  orphan  girl,  whom  he  fre(|uently  met  at 
the  house  of  a  common  acquaintance.  That  the  girl  was  portion- 
less was  no  demerit  in  his  uncle's  eyes.  Not  all  his  treasures, 
and  they  were  large,  had  choked  the  avenues  to  the  old  man's 
heart,  and  the  young  people  were  made  happy  by  his  approval 
of  their  union. 

After  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  the  north,  James  returned  with 
his  bride ;  and  in  a  modern  house,  furnished  with  every  luxury, 
the  happy  pair  began  their  wedded  life.  And  now,  who  so 
blest  as  Boynton?  Three  years  pass  away,  and  two  children 
make  their  home  still  Inighter.  Does  no  one  see  the  cloud, 
"  Not  bigger  than  a  inan's  hand,"  upon  the  verge  of  the  moral 
horizon  1 


% 


■•'it 


lOG 


THE   DRUNKARD'S   HOME. 


I 


Boynton's  dislike  to  sajin^  "  No,"  when  asked  to  join  a  few 
male  friends  at  dinner,  or,  on  a  party  of  pleasure  ;  his  very  good 
natiHi^,  which  made  him  so  desirable  a  companion,  were  the 
means  of  leading  him  in  the  steps  to  ruin. 

"  Come  Boynton.  another  glass  ?  " 

''  Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  really  taken  too  much 
already." 

"Nonsense!  it's  the  parting  glass,  you  nuist  take  it."  And 
Boynton,  wanting  in  lu'mness  of  character,  yieldeil  to  the  voice 
of  the  tempter.  Need  we  saj^,  that,  with  indulgence,  the  love 
for  the  poison  was  strengthened. 

For  a  while  the  unfoitunate  man  strove  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances. He  was  never  seen,  during  the  day  in  a  state  of  in- 
toxication ;  and  from  a  doze  on  the  sofa  in  the  evening  or  a 
heavy  lethargic  sleep  at  night,  he  could  awake  to  converse  with 
his  friends,  or  attend  at  his  counting-room,  without  his  secret 
habit  being  at  all  suspected. 

But  who,  that  wiUingly  dallies  with  temptation,  can  foretell 
the  end  ?  Who  can  "  Lay  the  flattering  unction  to  his  soul," 
that  in  a  downward  path  he  can  stop  when  he  pleases,  and 
unharmed  retrace  his  steps?  Like  the  moth,  circling  nearer  and 
still  nearer  to  the  Haine,  until  the  insect  falls  with  scorched  wing, 
a  victini  to  its  own  temerity,  so  will  the  pinions  of  the  soul  be 
left  scathed  and  drooping. 

Soon  Boynton  began  to  neglect  his  business,  and  he  was 
secretly  pointed  out  as  a  man  of  intemperate  habits.  At  last  he 
was  shiuined,  shaken  o(T,  ])y  the  very  men  who  had  led  him 
astray.  Who  were  most  guilty  ?  Let  heaven  judge.  Here  let  us 
pause,  and  ask  why  it  is  that  so  many  look  upon  a  fellow-being 
verging  to  the  brink  of  ruin,  without  speaking  one  persuasive 
word  or  doiuLr  one  kindly  ncl,  to  win  him  bnck  to  virtue?  Why 
is  it,  tiiat,  w  ben  fiillen,  be  is  thrust  still  farther  down  by  taunt- 


THE   DRUNKARD'S   HOME. 


107 


ing  and  contempt  ?  Oh,  such  was  not  the  spirit  of  him  who 
came  "  To  seek  and  to  save  tliut  which  was  lost."  Such  was 
not  the  spirit  of  him  who  said,  "  Neither  do  I  condemn  thee ; 
go  and  sin  no  more."  How  often,  instead  of  throwing  the 
mantle  of  charity  over  a  hrother's  sin,  instead  of  telling  him  his 
fault  "  Between  thee  and  him  alone,"  is  it  bared  to  the  light  of 
day,  trumpeted  to  a  cold  and  censure-loving  w-^rld,  until  the 
victim  either  sinks  into  gloomy  despondency,  and  believes  it 
hopeless  for  Mm  to  attempt  amendment ;  or  else  stands  forth  in 
bold  defiance,  and  rushes  headlong  to  his  ruin.  Not  one  human 
being  stands  so  perfect  in  his  isolation,  as  to  be  wholly  unmoved 
by  contact  with  his  fellows ;  what  need  then,  for  the  daily  exer- 
cise of  that  God-like  charity,  which  "  Suifereth  long  and  is 
kind,"  which  "  Beareth  all  things,  believcth  all  things,  hopeth 
all  thinijs,  endurcth  all  things."  Seven  years  have  gone  with 
their  records  to  eternity — where  is  James  Boynton  now  ? 

In  one  room  of  a  miserable,  delapidated  tenement,  inhabited 
by  many  unfortimate  victims  of  poverty  and  vice,  lives  he  who, 
on  his  wedding-day,  had  entered  a  home  which  taste  and  luxury 
rendered  enviable.  Squalor  and  discomfort  are  on  every  side. 
His  four  children  are  pale  and  sickly,  from  want  of  proper  food, 
and  close  confinement  in  that  deleterious  atmosphere.  They 
have  learned  to  hide  away  when  they  hear  their  father's  foot- 
steps :  for,  alas !  to  his  own,  he  is  no  longer  the  good  natared 
man.  Fallen  in  his  own  esteem,  frequently  the  subject  of  ribald 
mirth,  his  passions  have  become  inflamed,  and  he  vents  his  ill- 
humor  on  his  defenceless  family.  He  no  longer  makes  even  a 
show  of  doing  something  for  their  support;  and,  to  keep  them 
from  starving,  his  wife  works  whenever  and  at  whatever  she  can 
find  employment.  A  few  more  years,  and  where  is  Mrs.  Bo}  n- 
ionl  Tremble:  yet  who  set  an  example  to  your  families  of 
which  ye  cannot  foretell  the  consequences!    Tremble,  ye  whom 


il 


§ 


108 


THH:    DRUNKARD'S    HOME. 


God  has  made  to  be  (he  protectors,  the  gcuides,  the  counselors,  of 
the  women  ye  have  vowed  to  love  and  cherish  !  Mrs.  Boynton, 
like  her  husband,  has  fallen !  In  an  evil  hour,  harrassed  by 
want,  ill-used  l)y  her  husband  she  tasted  the  fatal  cup !  It  pro- 
duced teuii)()rary  forget  fulness,  from  which  she  awoke  to  a  sense 
of  sliame  aud  anguish.  Ah,  she  had  no  mother,  no  sister,  no 
woman-friend  who  truly  cared  for  her,  to  warn,  to  plead,  to  ad- 
monish !  Again  was  she  tempted,  again  she  tasted,  and  the 
squalid  home  was  rendered  tenfold  more  Avretchcd,  by  the  ab- 
sence of  all  attempt  at  order.  However  great  may  be  the  sorrow 
and  distress  occasioned  by  a  man's  love  for  strong  drink,  it  is  not 
Id  be  compared  to  the  d(>ep  wretchedness  produced  by  the  same 
cause  in  woman ;  and  it  is  matter  for  thankfulness,  that  so  few 
men  drag  down  their  wives  with  them  in  their  fall. 

Providence  raised  up  a  friend  who  took  the  barefooted  chil- 
dren of  the  Boyntons  from  being  daily  witnesses  of  the  evil 
habits  of  their  parents  ;  and  so  didled  were  all  the  finer  feelings 
of  his  nature,  that  James  Boynton  parted  from  them  without  a 
struggle. 

Like  the  Lacedemonians  of  old,  who  exposed  the  vice  to  ren- 
der it  hateful  in  the  eyes  of  the  beholders,  we  might  give  other 
and  more  harrowing  scenes  from  real  life ;  but  let  this  one 
suffice. 

Thank  God,  for  the  change  which  public  opinion  has  already 
wrought!  Thank  God,  for  the  efforts  which  have  been  made  to 
stay  the  moral  pestilence  !  Oh,  it  -s  fearf.il  to  think  how  many 
homes  have  been  made  desolate — how  many  hearts  have  been 
Itroken — how  many  fine  minds  have  been  ruined — how  many 
lofty  intellects  have  been  huml)led !  It  is  fearful  to  think  of  the 
niadness — the  crime — the  awful  death — which  follow  in  the  steps 
to  Ruin  / 


THE    WINE-CUP. 


BY    MRS. 


M  .    SAWYER. 


Dash  down  the  sparkling  cup  !  its  gleam, 

Like  the  pale  corpse-light  o'er  the  tomb. 
Is  but  a  false,  deceitful  l)eam 

To  lure  thee  onward  to  thy  doom. 
The  sparkling  gleam  will  fade  away. 

And  round  thy  lost  bewildered  feet, 
'Mid  darkness,  terror,  and  dismay, 

The  ghastly  shapes  of  death  will  meet. 

Dash  down  the  cup !  a  poison  sleeps 

In  every  drop  thy  lips  would  drfiin, 
To  make  thy  life-blood  seethe  and  leap, 

A  fiery  flood  through  every  vein — 
A  fiery  flood  that  will  efface. 

By  slow  degrees,  thy  godlike  mind 
Till,  'mid  its  ashes,  not  a  trace 

Of  reason  shall  be  left  behind. 


Dash  down  the  cup !  a  serpent  starts 

Beneath  the  flowers  which  crown  its  brim, 

Whose  deadl}'^  fangs  will  strike  thy  heart 
And  make  thy  flashing  eye  grow  dim. 


10 


110  THE  WINE-CUP. 

Before  whose  hot  and  maddening  Ijieath — 
More  fatal  than  tlie  simoom  bhnst — 

Thy  manhood,  in  unhonored  death, 
Will  sink,  a  worthless  wreck  at  last. 

Dash  down  the  cup !  thy  father  stands 

And  pleads  in  accents  deep  and  low, 
Thine  anguished  mother  clasps  her  hands 

With  quivering  lips  and  wordk'sis  woe. 
They  who  have  borne  thee  on  their  breast 

And  shielded  thee  through  many  a  year ; 
Oh,  would'st  thou  make  their  bosoms  blest, 

Their  life  a  joy, — their  pleading  hear ! 

Dash  down  the  cup  !  thy  young  wife  kneels- 

Her  eyes,  whose  drops  have  often  gushed, 
Are  turned,  with  mute  and  soft  appeal, 

Upon  thy  babe  in  slumber  hushed. 
Didst  thou  not  woo  her  in  her  youth 

W^itli  many  a  fond  and  solemn  vow? 
Oh,  turn  again,  and  all  her  truth 

And  love  shall  be  rewarded  now ! 


Dash  down  the  cup  i  and  on  thy  brow, 

Though  darkened  o'er  with  many  a  stain, 
Thy  manhood's  light,  so  feel)le  now, 

shall,  bright  and  steady,  burn  again. 
Thy  strength  shall,  like  the  fabled  bird, 

From  its  own  ashes  upward  spring; 
And  fountains  in  thy  breast  be  stirred, 

Whose  waters  living  joy  shall  bring! 


LAKE  SUPERIOR  AND  THE    NORTH-WEST 


BY     HORACE     GRKELEY, 


Away,  far  away  toward  tlie  sunsets  of  June,  stretches  the 
peerless,  majestic  Superior,  the  largest,  the  deepest,  the  purest, 
the  coldest  hody  of  fresh  water  on  the  surface  of  the  globe. 
With  a  length  of  four  hundred  miles,  a  mean  breadth  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty,  a  total  circumference  (without  regarding  petty 
indentations)  of  not  less  than  fifteen  hundred,  with  its  surface 
six  hundred  feet  above  and  its  depths  three  hundred  below  the 
heaving  surges  of  the  two  great  oceans  on  either  hand,  with  its 
rock-girdled,  slightly  timbered  shores  abandoned  by  the  savage 
whose  thinly  scattered  bands  once  found  here  a  scanty  and  pre- 
carious subsistence,  and  hardly  as  yet  invaded  by  the  white 
man's  merciless  axe.  Lake  Superior  lies  to  this  day  the  most 
cleanly  and  lovely  expanse  of  waters  that  embosoms  the  moon's 
cold  glancts  and  returns  gaze  for  gaze  as  stately  and  unmoved. 

It  was  early  in  June,  1847,  when  our  l)oat  cast  loose  from 
Detroit,  and  headed  west  north-west  up  the  broad,  short,  placid 
Detroit  river  through  the  small,  shallow  Lake  St.  Clair,  up  the 
river  so  named  into  and  across  the  magnificent  Huron,  centre 
and  pride  of  the  great  chain  of  lakes  which  form  so  striking  and 
beneficent  a  feature  of  our  continent.      Tlie  evening  shadvAVs 


112 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


were  deopcning  as  we  cuteicd  the  lake,  nnd  all  that  nig"lit,  next 
day,  and  far  into  the  following  night,  our  good  Itoat  pursued  her 
north-west  way  to  Mackinac,  her  innuediate  destination.  The 
weather  was  stormy,  alternating  from  pouring  rain  to  thick,  drift- 
ing mist—  io  thick  that  frecpient  soundings  were  essential  to 
safety,  for  Huron  has  more  than  her  share  of  the  twenty-two 
thousand  islands  embosomed  hy  the  great  chain  of  lak(!s  and 
rivers  which  forms  our  northern  l)oundary.  They  lie  mainly  in 
the  north,  so  as  to  leave  clear  the  usual  truck  of  our  steamboats 
and  vessels  mainly  destined  to  Lake  INIichigan,  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  way ;  but  as  you  approach  Mackinac,  the  Michigan 
coast  and  its  islets  on  on?  side,  the  islands  half  fdling  the  north 
end  of  the  lake  on  the  other,  with  Mackinac  itself  directly  in 
front,  render  the  navigation  in  a  dense  fog  somewhat  critical. 
Our  first  shallow  soundings  indicated  land  on  the  Michigan  side 
and  pretty  near,  as  the  water  shoaled  fast ;  so  our  boat  was 
headed  off;  but  a  short  time  sufficed  to  indicate  land  on  the 
other  bow,  so  no  safe  course  remained  but  to  anchor.  With 
night  the  fog  and  storm  took  leave,  and  broad  day  showed  Mack- 
inac but  a  few  miles  distant,  directly  in  our  onward  course.  We 
had  anchored  just  in  time. 

A  stroll  at  Mackinac  is  worth  a  day  in  any  man's  life.  The 
island  lies  in  the  mouth  of  Lake  Michigan,  which,  but  for  it, 
would  be  but  a  magnificent  bay  or  arm  of  Lake  Huron.  It  is 
an  out-crop  of  limestone  above  t/ie  two  lakes  it  thus  separates, 
covered  with  a  gravelly  loom  which  the  crumbling  and  sweating 
of  the  rock  renders  decidedly  fertile.  The  potato  especially 
grows  here  in  rare  luxuriousness  and  excellence — but  cultivation 
is  very  scantily  attended  to.  The  arts  most  in  vogue  are  fishing 
and  drinking  whisky,  which  are  carried  to  great  perfection.  The 
shoals  of  fish  passing  by  it  into  and  out  of  Lake  Michigan  made 
it  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  Red  Man  from  time  immemorial ;  its 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


113 


command  of  tlie  ontijincc  into  Lake  Michigan  dictatrd  the  cstah- 
lislnncnf  hoieof  a  Military  post  several  generations  ago;  and 
where  Indians  and  sohliers  do  congregate,  there  h(iuor  is  a[)t  to 
he  in  re(inisition.  Missionaries,  Catholic  and  Protestant,  were 
long  since  attracted  to  this  savage  eniporinrn  ;  hut  about  the 
only  trace  of  their  labors  now  visil)lc'  to  the  naked  eye  is  '  The 
Mission  House,'  hy  far  the  best  hotel  on  the  island.  I  did  not 
taste  it,  Itut  understood  that  the  li((uor  it  dispenses  is  a  decided 
improveMicnt  (in  taste)  on  the  '  Finswater,'  for  which  the  In- 
dians of  the  last  century  were  each  too  happy  to  pay  a  dol- 
lar a  pint  in  beaver-skins  at  iialf  a  dollar  a  piece,  thus  keep- 
ing himself  most  royally  drunk  until  the  last  skin,  which  should 
have  bought  bread  for  his  hungering  babes,  had  been  drunk 
np,  and  then  departing  in  sullen  silence,  with  a  headache  like  a 
yonng  volcano,  for  liis  bare-walled  lodge  in  the  distant  wilder- 
ness, there  to  mope  and  starve  through  a  six  months'  unbroken 
winter. 

I  note  the  improvement,  as  tested  by  the  palate,  in  the  liquor 
procurable  at  Mackma  j,  because  improvement  is  there  a  rarity. 
In  the  heart  of  the  thrifty  and  rapidly  growing  West,  h(>re  is  a 
mart  done-over,  j>assee  dectiying — an  embryo  Tadmor  or  Nine- 
veh. The  Red  Men,  having  been  swindled  and  fuddled  out  of 
all  their  lands  within  a  summer's  journey,  have  l)een  pushinl 
farther  and  farther  back  into  the  still  unbroken  wilderness,  ren- 
dering it  no  longer  convenient  nor  practicable  for  them  to  come 
hither  to  receive  their  annual  payments ;  the  Missionaries  and 
the  whisky-dispensers  have  accompanied  or  followed  them ; 
even  the  soldiers,  save  a  very  few,  have  been  drawn  away  to 
some  point  where  soldiering  is  not  so  glaring  an  absurdity  and 
futility ;  and  Mackinac  is  left  to  the  fishermen,  the  steamboats, 
the  few  wiser  travelers  for  pleasure  who  make  a  stop  of  a  day 

or  two  at  the  Mission  House,  the  sellers  of  '  Injun  curiosities." 

b 


- 


:■  -^•^^'■•'^■^■'■-•it'  ■r- 


\u 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


find  the  ilozrn  fainilics  of  loiUM'ors  of  divcrso  liues  who  rrrnain 
liere,  ;ij)[);ircnlly  becauso  they  krKAV  not  how  to  got  away.  By 
these  its  fall  from  its  higli  estate  is  not  redeemed;  it  is  scarcely 
retarded  :   Mackinac  vhis. 

Yet  it  miyht  l)e,  may  be,  nn  invilinj,^  summer  residence  for 
invalids,  lis  atmosphere  is  of  the  purest  ;  its  breezes  from  the 
cold  surrounding'  lakes  hardly  intermitted;  its  '  nine  months' 
winters'  are  divided  from  each  other  by  'three  months' cold 
weather ' — to  wit,  from  the  niiddh;  of  June  to  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember— ;just  the  season  least  endurable  in  milder  climates.  On 
the  iSlh  of  June,  1847,  the  few  a[)ple-trees  here  had  not  blos- 
somed, i)ut  wer(!  thinking  about  it ;  they  had  accomplished  it 
before  my  return  on  the  1st  of  Jidy. 

We  left  Mackinac  in  the  fair,  fresh  morning",  and  bore  north- 
east some  ninety  miles  to  the  'Grand  Detoin,'  or  great  elbow 
made  by  the  St.  INIiU'y's  River  in  discharging  the  waters  of  Lake 
Superior  into  those  of  Lake  Huron.  Both  river  and  lake  are  in 
this  quarter  studded  with  ishmds,  and  I  never  hope  to  see  on 
earth  a  fairer  sight  than  here  lay  spread  out  beneath  the  genial 
midday  sun  of  June,  which  reminded  me  of  an  evening  May-day 
in  Vermont  or  New-Hampshire.  The  islands  and  shores  rose  in 
graceful  swells  from  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  which  here 
hardly  rises  or  falls  afoot  in  a  century;  the  poplar  and  white 
birch,  which  mainly  line  the  pebbly,  rocky  shores,  were  in  their 
early,  light-green  tender  leaf,  contrasting  strongly  with  the  dark- 
evergreens  in  the  background,  and  giving  the  impression  at  first 
sight  of  grassy  meadows  sloping  down  from  the  woods  to  the 
water  and  filling  up  the  space  between  them.  In  some  places, 
.1  close  scrutiny  was  needed  to  dispel  the  natural  illusion. 
Many  of  the  tiny  islets  appear  to  rise  but  a  foot  or  two  above 
the  surface  of  the  broad  and  tranquil  St.  Mary's,  and  would 
seem  in  constant  danger  of  being  submerged,  but  tl  eir  timber 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


115 


Ix'iirs  (cstiinony  to  their  inMfcct  iniiiiiiiiity  from  that  peril.  No 
moiiiiliiins  nor  clill's  olistruct  tlu»  breeze  nor  the  vision,  and  the 
passiij^e  of  the  j(enerally  deep  and  phicid  hut  in  some  places 
swift  and  shallow  St.  Mary's  is  ii  succession  of  ma<,nuncent  pic- 
tures, wherein  the  serenest  and  deepest  hlue  of  heaven  is  fuly 
reflected  in  the  clear  cold  d«'pths  helow,  and  the  scarcely  in- 
dented forest,  in  its  im})ressive  silence  and  grandeur,  fitly  blends 
and  harmonizes  with  both. 

We  got  aground  when  a  few  miles  from  the  Saut  St.  Marte, 
running  on  a  bank  in  thc^  darkness  of  the  night,  and  were  unable 
to  work  oir  till  next  morning.  An  hour  of  sunshine  brought  us 
safely  to  the  wharf  at  the  Saut,  where  the  waters  of  Lake 
Superior  leap  and  foam  over  a  bed  of  rugged  rocks,  perhaps 
liiilf  a  mile  wide  and  rather  more  than  a  mile  long,  in  which 
they  descend  some  eighteen  or  twenty  f<'('l,  into  a  wide,  still 
basin  below,  forming  an  excellent  harbor  for  all  manner  of  craft, 
and  a  hundred  times  as  many  of  them  as  have  ever  yet  been 
attracted  to  that  rude  region.  There  is  no  perpendicular  fall  of 
any  account,  and  sometimes,  when  strong  western  gales  ])low  for 
a  day  or  more  down  the  lake,  doubling  the  volume  of  wat(M-  dis- 
charged and  covering  up  the  channel  rocks  therewith,  I  under- 
stand that  the  appearance  is  very  little  dillerent  from  that  of  the 
St.  Lawrence  at  some  of  its  larger  rapids  not  deemed  absolutely 
barriers  to  navigation.  On  these  rare  occasions,  the  only  obstacle 
to  the  passage  of  light,  strong  steamboats  down  or  even  up  is 
the  shallowness  and  intricacy  of  the  channel,  but  that  precludes 
the  idea,  not  exactly  of  success  but  of  safety.  Sailing  vessels 
of  light  draft  have  been  run  down  without  injury,  after  years  of 
service  on  Superior,  and  one  small  steamboat  is  now  in  Superior 
wdiich  formerly  plied  on  the  lowi^-  lakes,  but  I  think  that  was 
taken  up  over  land.  '  Mackinac  boats,'  calculated  for  propul- 
sion by  oars  or  light  sails,  of  one  to  three  feet  draft,  and  of  five 


lit; 


L  A  K  K    S  U  P  K  R I  O  II . 


to  (wriity  Jons'  buillu'ii,  an-  wi-aiily  tlmj^jfcd  widi  roprs  up  ilit? 
less  iinprliioiis  currciil  liy  one  or  llic  oilier  sliurc,  and  llicn  run 
down  l»y  skilirul  naviyalors  (or  llic  cxcilcMK'nt  and  eclat  of  ilio 
ailvcnturc — a  Ibol-liardy  Ciipcr  at  host,  wliioli  sonictinics  proves 
filid  to  those  eni;"a«^i'd  in  it.  The  day  lu'lore  I  reached  ih.-  Saul 
on  a  second  visil,  in  Aiiniisl,  ISlS,  a  lieavy,  hard-hilted  h(»al, 
overloaded  willi  nine  li.thiui  and  white  hare-hrains,  atlenipled 
this  leal,  hut  slie  siriick  a  rock  just  under  water  when  in  lull 
career,  and  pitched  her  human  car^^o  first  into  the  air  and  then 
into  the  loam,  wherc^  three  of  them  were  drowned  and  some 
others  fished  out  of  the  I'dilies  helow  harely  alivj'  and  ullerly 
insensihle.  liy  prouij)!  and  ellicient  ellbrls  they  wi-re  resuscita- 
ted, and  I  presume  they  lia\ c  siiue  left  the  passage  of  the  Saul 
to  men  who  have  hought  their  wit  cheaper. 

I  suspect  the  Saut  St.  Mari(!  is  the  oldest  existing  nggregalion 
of  human  dwellings  on  this  continent — north  of  the  city  of 
Mexico  al  all  events.  As  lh(>  easiest  of  fisheries,  constantly 
visited  hy  white-fish,  trout  and  siskoweit  from  the  three  iiiighiy 
lakes  below  with  their  inlermediales  and  Irihutaries,  it  must  have 
early  won  the  Red  Men  to  hrild  (heir  lodges  on  its  banks,  roam- 
ing (hence  in  (piest  of  game  '  .  )Ugh  the  dense  forests  around 
and  the  fair  prairies  lying  beyond  them  in  the  south.  The  sugar 
maple  abounds  on  either  hand,  and  this,  with  the  berries  of  the 
wood  and  the  lisli  of  the  river,  would  alford  to  the  hunter's  wife 
the  means  of  eking  out  a  subsistence  during  Ids  long  absences 
on  the  chase  or  on  the  war-path.  Columbus,  the  Red  Men's 
evil  genius,  laid  bare  this  continent  to  European  adven(ure  and 
avarice,  and,  before  the  Mississippi  was  discovered  or  the  Ohio 
traced  to  its  mouth,  French  explorers,  soldiers  and  missionaries 
had  pitched  their  (en(s  beside  the  fishers'  cabins  at  the  Saut.  A 
century  has  nearly  passed  since  French  ascendency  in  this  region 
was  completely  overlluown  and  supplanted,  but  French  cliarac- 


L 


I, AKF,  srrr. niou. 


U'Y  imd  Minnncrs,  niorc  pliisiir  iiud  <r('niii|  cliiin  llir  Aii'/lo-S.ixoii, 
still  hold  tlicir  ^Tonnd.  'IMir  Citlnilii-  Cliiirtli  is,  I  think,  lhi> 
hrst.  Mttnidrd  of  ;m\  .-it  the  Siiiit,  mid  I  fear  I  was  the  least 
rdillcd  of  any  anioni,''  the  woiNhiprrs  within  its  walls  on  llif 
Saliliath  I  atlrndcd  il.  lis  ri'tM|n(>nt(M's,  of  Indian,  Frcnrh  and 
InttMinrdialc  oiii;in,  niaintainrd  a  jjfrncial  donjcanor  of  tfra\  ily, 
propriety  and  inlcicsl ;  and  the  I/ilin  Mass  was  (piile  as  intelli- 
•^■ihle  to  them  as  il  would  have  lieen  lo  an  Irish  or  Yankee  con- 
greifalion.  Throny'hoiil  ihe  north-west,  T  helievc^  the  Calholic 
Missionaries,  in  spite  of  lOnulish  and  American  domination,  are 
the  most  snccessfnl  of  any  in  a((|nirin<j  and  mainlaininir  an  in- 
llnence  over  the  minds  of  the  untutored  Ahorii^ines,  thoiii^h  a 
philosopluM'  would  naturally  anticipate  that  sim[)le  forms  and  less 
mysterious  or  recondite  doi,'-mas  would  secmc  their  preference. 
I  tln'nk,  too,  tin;  Calholic  Missionaries  (Mjjoy  a  <;-eneral  repntalion 
of  su[)eriority  in  talents,  while  all  an*  men  of  (>\-emplary  char- 
acter and  earnest  devotion.  If  not,  why  should  they  have  thus 
huried  themselves  for  life  in  a  hyperhorean  wilderness! 

The  Saiit  is  now  a  cosmopolite  villaire.  The  Red  Muii  has 
hoon  superseded  in  dominion  hy  the  French  ;  they  by  the  En"^- 
lish  ;  and  the  latter,  so  far  as  the  southern  shore  is  reii^arded,  hy 
the  Americans;  while  'the  nuMeor  flag'  still  waves  ov(M'  th« 
smaller  fhonijli  older  villaii^e  on  the  north  hank,  which  is  d(M<p1y 
indented  hy  a  hay  at  the  foot  of  the  fall,  whence,  T  understand, 
the  ronl(>  for  a  ship  canal  into  th(«  lake  ahove  is  decidedly  shorter 
than  that  on  the  American  side — easier  it  hardly  could  he,  since 
a  mill-race  was  fortncMly  cut  throujih  the  vhole  extent  on  our 
side  hy  a  small  body  of  United  States  troops  posted  here,  merely 
in  order  to  turn  a  mill  for  the  frrindin*^  of  their  grain  into  ilour. 
The  mill  long-  since  vanished,  hut  the  race  remains,  showing-  the 
feasibility  of  a  canal  which  would  open  the  great  reservoir  above 
lo  the  thousand  keels  now  plying-  on  the  lower  lakes,  greatly 


1 


118 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


diininisliing  the  cost  of  transportation,  and  in  eflcct  bringing  the 
Superior  region  a  fourth  nearer  tlie  seaboard  than  it  now  is. 
The  cost  of  sucli  a  canal,  of  ample  size  and  thoroughly  con- 
structed, would  be  Half  a  Million  of  Dollars ;  its  value  to  the 
Nation  would  be  many  Millions.  It  cannot  nmch  longer  remain 
a  project  unexecuted. 

But  I  linger  too  long  at  the  Saut.  Farewell,  ye  swam^/s  of 
evergreen,  stretching  interminabl}'^  southward  from  the  Fall! 
Adieu,  Indian  huts  and  whisky-selling  cabins,  the  latter  more 
numerous  than  the  private  dwellings,  lining  the  level  road  on 
our  side  from  the  foot  to  the  head  of  the  fall !  I  did  my  best  to 
crij)ple  your  deadly  trallic  by  a  Temperance  Address  to  full  half 
the  people  of  the  place,  while  I  was  with  you ;  but,  I  apprehend, 
you  can  well  afibrd  to  forgive  me  that.  The  River  of  Alcohol 
that  flows  down  the  throats  of  the  savage  or  semi-savage  thou- 
sands who  here  obtain  their  annual,  only  glimpse  of  civilization, 
is  still  broad  enough,  impetuous  enough,  to  drown  all  hopes  of 
their  speedy  disenchantment  from  the  infernal  sorcery  which  is 
rapidly  destro}  ing  them,  mind,  body  and  estate — and  what  more 
can  a  rum-seller,  what  more  could  a  demon  desire  ? 

The  means  of  conveyance  on  Lake  Superior  are  yet  primitive 
— they  were  more  so  in  1847-8.  The  solitary  Propeller  where- 
in we  took  passage  from  the  Saut  had  no  genius  for  rapid  loco- 
motion, even  in  good  weather ;  in  the  other  sort  she  very  pro- 
perly refused  to  go  at  all,  unless  driven  by  the  wind  and  waves. 
She  had  a  rival  on  the  lake — the  steamboat  already  mentioned ; 
but  she  was  older  and  more  dubious  than  the  propeller.  The 
two  started  together  on  a  dull,  hazy  June  morning,  favored  by 
a  raw,  heavy  east  wind,  which  soon  blew  up  a  driving  rain,  the 
counterpart  of  an  April  north-easter  on  the  coast  of  New-Eng- 
land ;  and  this  closed,  diaing  the  succeeding  night,  with  a  smart 
g;d('  from  the  west,  wherein  the  schooner  Merchiint,  which  left 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


lltl 


the  Sunt  with  us,  conveying  a  nuUlaiy  coini)any  of  fifteen  per- 
sons, went  down  with  all  on  board,  and  was  never  again  heard 
of.  This  storm  caused  us  to  miss  the  Pictured  Rocks,  one  of 
the  lions  of  tlie  lake,  situated  on  Grand  Island,  in  the  south-east 
quarter,  and  so  out  of  the  path  of  vessels  passing  up  tlie  lake. 
Not  having  seen  the  Rocks,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe 
them. 

You  cannot  see  Lake  Superior  from  the  Saut — only  a  circuit- 
ous strait  or  bay  leading  thence  and  gradually  narrowing  down 
to  the  width  of  the  outlet  I  have  described.  Not  till  you  have 
passed  White  Fish  Point,  thirty  to  forty  miles  up,  does  the  lake 
open  to  your  gaze  in  its  vastness  and  solitary  grandeur.  Thence 
you  soon  pass  out  of  sight  of  land  and  sail  on  for  hours  and 
hours,  alone  with  God  and  the  mirrors  of  His  immensity  in  the 
transparent  depths  above,  around,  beneath.  I  have  traversed  the 
lake  in  storm  and  calm  ;  the  latter  is  by  far  the  more  sublime. 
The  mighty  ocean  is  a  tumbling  chaos,  but  here  is  a  serene 
creation.  A  sail  is  rarely  descried  as  yet;  the  fish  are  quiet  in 
their  depths  far  beloW;  disdaining  the  vain  displays  of  the  por- 
poises and  dolphins  of  the  brine  ;  few  birds  inhabit  these  shores, 
and  rarely  one,  unless  it  be  birds  of  passage,  in  their  annual 
migrations,  cer  darken  its  depths  with  their  flitting  shadows. 
Beside  your  bark  and  its  contents,  nothing  of  man  or  his  doings 
is  visible  or  suggested  as  you  pursue  your  trackless  way. 

The  waters  of  this  lake  never  forget  their  proximity  to  the 
Arctic  circle.  Though  their  great  depth  and  volume  prevent 
their  freezing,  except  for  a  few  miles  next  the  shore,  yet  the 
same  influences  prevent  their  yielding  to  the  sun's  summer  fervor 
as  well,  and,  though  the  fair  days  of  Jul\'  and  August  are  as  hot 
on  its  shon>s  as  in  New-York,  yet  an  experienced  navigator  of 
Superior  observed  in  my  presence  that  he  never  knew  a  hot  au.y 
thereon.     Even  without  wind,  the  evajjoration  from  her  cold 


120 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


!»o.soin  counleracts  and  haiTlcs  all  the  power  of  Sol's  fiercest 
niys.  The  moiling  of  ice  over  a  vast  hody  of  water  scarcely 
less  cold  (lian  ice  is  a  tedious  operation,  and  the  spring  is  later 
by  weeks  than  it  would  be  if  the  lake  were  not  here,  as,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Avinters  are  less  rigorous.  Winter  is  preceded, 
in  Septenil)er  and  the  fore  part  of  October,  by  the  loveliest  In- 
dian sununer  ever  known  ;  which  is  followed  by  storms,  fust  of 
rain,  then  of  snow,  in  rapid  succession,  until  thirty  feet  of  snow, 
by  actual  measurement,  have  often  fallen  in  November  and 
December,  covering  the  earth  with  six  to  eight  feet,  well  packed 
down — the  residt,  perhaps,  of  thirty  dnys'  steady  snowing  out 
of  the  sixty.  By  this  time,  the  water  of  the  lake  has  been 
chilled  to  something  like  the  temperature  of  the  air  above  it ; 
evaporation  slacks  off,  and  a  season  of  fair,  steady,  but  not  ex- 
treme cold  succeeds.  The  mercury  in  the  Fahrenheit's  ther- 
mometer often  stands  nearly  at  zero  for  weeks  without  once  fall- 
ing much  below  that  point.  The  spring's  approach  is  heralded 
by  prodigious  rains,  very  similar  in  extent  and  duration  to  the 
snows  of  early  winter,  whereby  the  ice  of  the  lake  and  the 
snowy  mantle  of  earth  arc;  gradually  wasted  away,  leaving 
a  te;  icious  residuum  of  ice  beneath  the  evergreens  of  the 
swamps  and  lower  grounds  generally.  The  soil  is  thus  saturated 
like  a  sponge  for  a  couple  of  months,  to  the  serious  impediment 
of'  mining  and  nearly  every  other  branch  of  industry.  The 
lake  slowly  yields  its  ice,  but  continues  obstinately  cold,  covering 
the  surroimding  country  with  frosts  up  to  a  late  period  in  June. 
I  first  landed  at  Eagle  Harbor  on  the  loth  of  June,  and  the 
following  night  ice  formed  there  to  the  depth  of  a  ([uarter  of  an 
inch.  Ten  days  before,  fresh  ice  had  formed  over  a  part  of  the 
harbor,  of  such  thickness  as  seriouly  to  cut  and  deface  the  sides 
of  a  small  schooner  that  was  impelled  through  it.  And  all 
through  the  summer,  though  the  fair  days  are  abundantly  hot, 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


121 


the  succeeding  nights  are  so  cool  tliiit  the  gnats  and  nioskctoes, 
though  horribly  plenty  and  savagely  hlood-thirsty  by  day,  are 
absolutely  quiet  and  inocuous  after  night-fall,  and  I  do  not  be- 
lieve a  mosketo  ever  hununed  after  dark  in  any  cabin  within 
miles  of  Lake  Superior.  The  blessedness  of  this  dispensation 
none  but  the  infinitely  bitten  can  appreciate. 

I  tbought  till  I  tried  that  tlie  common  report  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  bathing  in  the  waters  of  this  lake  was  an  exaggeration ; 
so,  during  my  second  visit,  late  in  August,  18-18,  I  determined  to 
test  it.  Stealing  away  alone  to  a  cove  in  which  the  transparent 
lymph  gradually  deepened  from  the  shore  outward,  I  disrobed 
and  walked  in ;  jjut  common  rumor  was  right  and  my  skepti- 
cism wrong.  For  a  short  distance,  the  cold  was  endurable  ;  but 
at  the  depth  of  five  feet  it  stung  like  a  hornet — and  this  on  the 
25th  of  August.  After  a  very  brief  essay,  I  traveled  shoreward 
and  gave  it  up.  Let  the  lake  be  entirely  still  through  a  long, 
bright  day,  and  the  sun's  rays  will  warm  into  enduralnlity  the 
contents  of  some  of  the  shallow  bays  of  shining  sand  ;  but  the 
water  of  the  lake  generally  was  never  warm  enough  for  bath- 
ing, and  never  will  be  this  side  of  the  general  conflagration. 

Two  hundred  miles  or  over  due  west  from  the  Saut  is  Point 
Keewenaw  or  Kee-\vai-wenon,  the  terminus  of  a  promontory 
which  bears  its  name,  with  the  little  isle  JManitou  and  two  or 
three  surrounding  rocks  jutting  oat  into  the  lake  in  a  direct  line 
beyond  it.  The  Point  or  promontory  is  thrown  out  north-east- 
ward obli(|uely  from  the  southern  or  American  shore  of  the  lake, 
from  which  it  bears  much  like  the  thi.aib  from  a  human  hand 
held  naturally  open.  Between  the  Point  and  the  main  land  S. 
S.  E.  of  it  is  of  course  a  deep  bay,  having  an  Indian  village 
known  as  L'Ance  at  its  head,  witli  a  Catholic  and  a  Methodist 
Mission,  a  United  States  blacksmith,  &c.,  &c.  Here  is  a  saw- 
mill and  some  cultivation.     The  potatoes  grown  at  L'Ance  (and 


iii.ii  i;^iV:,^^iS4^4^„. 


122 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


indeed  any  where  about  the  lake)  are  capital,  their  only  fault  is 
that  they  are  »oo  few.  They  ought  to  be  planted  in  the  fall, 
so  as  to  vi'getate  before  the  saturated  earth  can  be  made  ready 
to  receive  them  in  the  spring,  by  which  course;  they  are  pretty 
surely  allowed  to  ripen  before  the  serious  frosts  of  early  Septem- 
ber. The  yield  of  all  roots  suited  lo  the  climate  is  very  good, 
but  wiiUer  grains  are  smothered  by  the  deep  snows,  an'l  Indian 
corn  cannot  abide  the  short  sunuuers  and  chilly  nights.  I  be- 
lieve some  has  been  grown  to  be  eaten  green  on  the  Ontonagon, 
to  the  south-west ;  but  all  the  stalks  I  saw  on  the  Point  looked 
as  if  frightened  out  of  their  growth  by  nightly  dreams  of  a  hard 
winter  at  hand.  Thev  remind  me  of  the  matlieniatical  defini- 
tion  of  a  line — extension  without  lireadth — the  length  (two  or 
three  feet)  being  rendered  remarkable  only  by  the  absence  of 
breadth.  Grasses  and  the  spring -sown  grains  will  yet  llourish 
here ;  fruits  never. 

I  once  olTended  an  old  sea-captain  with  whom  I  was  travel- 
ing by  stage,  and  who  had  beguiled  a  part  of  the  way  with 
sea-yarns,  by  "olunteering  one  of  Lake  Superior  in  turn — for 
though  I  had  not  then  seen  the  mother  of  lakes,  she  was  and 
had  long  been  a  theme  of  interest  and  wonder  to  me.  My 
story  was  of  Capt.  Ben.  Stannard,  a  pioneer  in  her  civilized 
navigation,  who,  in  the  absence  of  charts,  buoys,  bells,  light- 
houses, &c.,  &c.,  which  are  yet  very  scanty  but  twenty  years 
ago  were  unknown,  used  to  employ  his  rille  during  a  d(mse, 
protracted  fog  in  lieu  of  compass  and  quadrant,  firing  it  at  inter- 
vals and  judging  by  some  peculiarity  of  the  reverberation  from 
the  hills  bordering  the  lake  on  his  practiced  ear  how  near  to 
and  on  what  part  of  the  coast  his  vessel  was.  My  captain  felt 
insulted  that  I  should  think  of  putting  such  a  story  on  him  for 
a  fact ;  yet  as  such  I  had  received  and  still  credit  it.  I  won't 
say  iiovv  ellicient   or  reliable  this   rille   observation  may  have 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


123 


been ;  but  I  can  easily  credit  a  resort  1o  it  I)y  a  ready,  ingenious 
Yankee,  thoroiigldy  befoyged  on  a  jagged,  rock-bound  coast, 
yet  perfectly  familiar  with  every  crook  and  turn  of  that  coast 
if  he  could  only  see  it,  and  acquainted  also  with  the  intluences 
of  proximity  or  remoteness,  eminence  or  depression,  in  modify- 
ing the  reverberations  aforesaid.  But,  perceiving  no  adecjuatc 
motive  for  risking  the  extra  disfigurement  of  my  visage,  I  tacit- 
ly yielded  the  point  to  my  testy  captain,  lapsing  into  moody 
silence. 

Point  Keewenaw,  though  but  a  few  nu'les  across,  and  almost 
sepjuated  from  the  main  land  by  a  chain  of  lake  and  outlet,  is 
traversed  by  the  '  Little  ALmiI  real '  and  'Eagle'  rivers,  as  they 
are  termed,  l)eing  decent  mill-streams  only,  with  many  smaller 
rivulets.  No  part  of  earth  is  more  beautifully  nor  more  bounti- 
fully watered,  whether  from  clouds  above  or  springs  beneath. 
From  the  outward  or  north-western  shore  the  hills  rise  in  the 
coiu'se  of  two  to  four  miles  to  an  altitude  of  five  to  eight  hun- 
dred feet,  sending  down  at  intervals  of  not  many  rods  sparkling, 
brawling  torrents  of  the  purest  cold  water,  warnuKed  a  health- 
ful beverage  for  man  or  beast.  Through  this  range  '  Eagle 
River'  makes  its  way,  turning  from  east  to  south,  and  falling 
into  the  lake  some  twenty  miles  from  the  extreme  Point,  while 
the  Little  Montreal  follows  its  southerly  base  and  falls  into  the 
lake  or  bay  several  miles  south  of  the  Point.  The  valley  of 
each,  though  elevated,  is  in  good  part  level  and  arable,  well 
timbered  with  sugar  maple,  white  pine,  black  birch,  &c.,  with 
hemlock,  black  ash,  &c.,  on  the  level  wet  grounds.  On  their 
gentler  tributaries,  above  the  decaying  beaver-dams  which  Ix'- 
speak  their  origin,  are  frequently  seen  small  meadows,  whence 
the  traveler,  after  long  and  tiresome  wanderings  in  the  en- 
shrouding forest,  obtains  welcome  views  of  the  clear  blue  hea- 
vens, which  seems  nearer  here  than  elsewhere.   An  aulumu  day 


124 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


. 


■ 


in  these  forests,  the  rank  wild  grass  of  the  nmnrlows  wnving-  m 
the  gentlo  breezes,  ■'kith  glimpses  of  the  blue  lake  at  intervals 
as  you  emerge  upon  the  north-west  side  of  the  eminences,  is  not 
to  be  disdained  by  an  emperor.  The  lake,  though  three  miles 
away,  and  six  hundred  feet  below  you,  seem  but  a  few  steps 
off,  quiet  and  shining  like  a  kingdoui  of  rock  crystal.  "  They 
get  up  superb  storms  here  in  their  season,"  coolly  remarked  my 
companion,  as  I  silently  contemplated  the  prospect  with  which 
he  was  familiar.     I  covdd  not  contradict  him. 

The  Mines  are  of  course  the  great  feature  of  Lake  Superior, 
but  I  shall  not  here  describe  them.  The  Iron  region  lies  near 
the  coast,  sixty  to  eigli^y  miles  E.  S.  E.  of  the  Point,  and  its 
hills  of  ore  not  surpassed  as  to  quantity  or  quality  by  any  in 
the  world.  Their  working  has  barely  begun,  and  at  a  period 
unfavorable  to  their  rapid  development.  Of  the  Copper  Mines, 
the  most  productive  as  yet  r.re  those  near  Eagle  River  on  the 
Point,  which  yielded  over  one  thousand  tons  of  pure  copper 
in  1849.  Those  on  the  Ontonagon  are  hardly  opened  yet,  ])ut 
are  said  to  be  not  less  promising.  But  wluu  reader  of  an  An- 
nual will  care  to  descend  with  me,  candle  in  hand,  the  slender, 
slippery  staii-rounds  of  a  mine,  with  dirty  water  dripping  on 
his  head  and  the  dark  ooze  hitting  him  at  every  turn,  and  the 
comfortable  assurance  that  any  misstep  or  giving  way  would 
probalily  land  him  in  eternity?  No,  the  Clilf  Mine  (the  only 
one  fairly  opened)  is  a  wondcM-,  with  its  immense  galleries  blast- 
ed out  of  the  solid  rocks  down  to  hundreds  of  feet  below,  not 
merely  the  foot  of  the  cliff  but  the  bed  of  the  creek,  and  still 
going  down,  down,  toward  the  nadir.  Clink,  clink,  sounds  the 
sledge  on  the  drill-head  or  the  cold-chisel,  far  down  in  those 
cavernous  recesses,  where  roughly  accoutred  men  are  moving 
about  like  ghosts  (if  ghosts  carry  lighted  candles)  in  the  far  pio- 
found,  while  lioarse  voices  are  ordering  hither  and  thither,  and 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


12i 


every  few  nioincnts  the  cry  of  warning'  followed  by  the  roar 
of  a  bhist  Ihx'uIc  the  monotony  of  this  ten-story  cavern.  Anil 
there  lies  the  dull  yellow  metal,  blasted  down  after  the  patient 
removal  of  some  feet  of  the  rock  beside  it,  in  masses  of  one  to 
fifty  tons,  the  larger  being  slowly,  laboriously  cut  into  man- 
ageable pieces  by  long,  sledge-driven  chisels,  and  then  hauled 
up  to  daylight  exactly  as  nature  fused  it — a  mighty  coliumi  of 
mingled  copper  and  ipiartz,  reaching  from  the  surface  down, 
down  beyond  the  scope  of  conjecture, — here  nine-tenths  quartz 
and  there  seven-eighths  copper,  fit  to  be  run  into  cannon  or 
coined  into  cents  on  tlie  instant.  The  world  has  many  marvels, 
but  yon  nuist  travel  far  to  find  the  counterpart  of  the  Mines  of 
Lake  Superior. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  feature  of  this  mineral  region  is  the 
unconscious  testimony  it  bears  to  the  truth  of  Solomon's  apo- 
thegm that,  essentially,  '  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.' 
The  pioneer  lands  on  a  wild  and  rugged  coast,  bearing  no  trace 
of  human  labor  or  residence  save  that  of  the  few  idle  savages 
now  departed  who  from  time  immemorial  barely  subsisted  with 
difiicuhy  in  certain  widely  scattered  localities  on  the  products 
of  their  rude  fisheries  and  the  far  scantier  products  of  the  chase 
— for  these  fruitless,  nutless,  almost  berryless  woods,  with  their 
six  months'  drapery  of  engulphing  snows,  famishing  or  repel- 
ling nearly  every  animal  but  the  rabbit,  can  never  have  been 
a  favorite  hau"t  of  game.  Debarking  at  some  point  convenient 
to  his  contemplated  destination,  the  pioneer '  prospects'  or  care- 
fully explores  the  woods  for  miles  in  every  direction,  but  espe- 
cially the  faces  of  cliffs  and  all  abrupt  declivities  where  the  rocks 
in  position  are  exposed,  for  traces  of  mineral  veins,  which, 
being  found,  he  proceeds  to  open  by  digging,  drilling  and  blast- 
ing, so  as  to  determine  as  soon  as  may  be  whether  they,  or  any 
of  them,  will  probably  justify  the  heavy  expense  of  opening 


126 


LAKE    SUPERIOR. 


in  tluc  form,  by  sli.ift  and  drift  in  the  liard  trap-rock.  Probalily 
llic  first,  second,  and  even  third  essay  results  in  disappointment ; 
the  vein  is  thin  antl  poor ;  the  rock,  wliich  was  fair  am^ydahjid 
at  tlic  on(set,  chang-es  lo  coni^lomerate  or  green-slone,  or  a 
tough,  leathery,  chlorih'c  (rap  in  which  mineral  veins  will  not 
hold,  hut  thin  out  as  he  descends  to  a  mere  trace,  not  worth  the 
powder  required  to  open  them.  But  at  length — and  it  may  not 
be  llie  first  year,  nor  the  second — he  strikes  a  vein  of  the  right 
sort,  widening  rather  than  narrowing  as  it  descends  in  a  nearly 
perpendicular  direction,  with  walls  of  the  genuine  trap  clearly 
defined,  while  the  vein-stone  itself  is  unequivocal  (|uartz,  di- 
versified by  prehnite  and  crystals,  wi(h  traces  of  silver  and 
an  alnmdance  of  native  copper,  showing  a  tendency  to  form 
masses,  even  within  a  few  feet  of  the  surface.  Joy!  joy! 
the  miner's  heart  dilates  and  exults  with  all  the  pleasure  and 
pride  of  another  Columbus.  But  hold !  what  is  that  indenta- 
tion in  the  earUi's  surface  just  above  and  below  and  in  line 
with  his  rude  excavation?  It  seems  as  if  cut  by  a  mountain 
rivulet,  yet  no  water  courses  through  it,  and  upland  trees  grow 
giant-like  in  its  sides  and  bed.  No,  it  is  no  water-worn  channel, 
but  the  bed  of  an  ancient  excavation,  which  time,  gravitation 
and  the  ever-active  elements  have  so  nearly  filled  up — a  place 
wdiere  copper  was  worked  for  and  obtained  before  Solomon 
WTote  Proverbs  or  Samson  smote  the  Philistines.  Cut  down  the 
venerable  trees — they  are  as  stately  and  as  gnarly  there  as  any 
where — dig  out  their  roots,  throw  out  the  earth  which  has 
slowly  tumbled  or  crumbled  in,  and  you  will  come  at  length  to 
the  rock  bottom  and  side;  .  with  the  yellow  mineral  gleaming 
through  the  former,  surrounded  by  stone  boulders  of  a  peculiar 
hardness,  unlike  any  thing  originatinjL^  \  the  neighborhood,  and 
evidently  brought  from  a  distance  to  be  used  as  hammers  in 
liberating  the  copper   from  the  enclosing  rock — eac'*   boulder 


ng 


UU" 

in 
Icier 


T-  A  K  F,    S  r  P  1".  II I  0  R  . 


12] 


having'  on   incision  or  ring'  liihoriously  cut  uroiind  it  (o  retain 
the   wilhe   or   handU;  whtrehy   it  was   iin(|ii('slional>ly   wielded 
and  impelled.      There  are  indications  that  the  ancient  miners 
employed   fne  (having  no  powder)  to  overcome  the  stuhhorn 
resistance  of  the  enclosing  trap,  prohahly  heating  it  intensely 
hot  by  burning  logs,  and  then  dashing  on  water  to  calcine  or 
crack  it.      A  few  scraps  and   implements  of  coppt"'  were  lost 
or  left  l)y  them,  leaving  no  doubt  of  the  nature  or  drift  of  their 
operations.     In  one  place,  a  giant  mass  of  solid  cop[)er,  of  sev- 
eral tons'  weight,  after  having;  vainly  resisted  all  their  eilbrts  to 
separate  or  fuse  it,  was  left  in  their  excavation  as  impracticable 
and  iiseless — a  windfall  to  their  successors  of  our  day — after 
having  obviously  cost  many  of  the  primitive  miners  the  labor 
of  months  if  not  years. 

But  I  grow  tedious.  Adieu  !  mighty  reservoir  of  waters,  the 
purest,  the  clearest,  the  coldest,  within  the  domin'jn  of  civili- 
zed man.  I  thank  the  good  Providence  that  enabled  me  to  see 
thee  in  thy  native,  solitary  grandeur  and  beauty,  before  the 
swiftly  approaching  (read  of  Industry  and  Commerce  shall  have 
covered  thy  bosom  with  sails  and  smoke-pipes,  disrol)ed  thy 
shores  of  their  all-embracing  forests,  supplanting  them  with 
grass  and  vegetables,  filling  thy  ports  with  the  hum  of  thrifty 
Traffic  and  the  manly  tones  of  the  anchor-lifting  seamen's 
chorus.  Around  the  mouths  of  those  prolific  mines  shall  gather 
larger  and  larger  villages  of  hardy  miners,  daily  sending  up 
from  sunless  recesses  a  thousand  yards  below  even  the  lake's 
1)lue  surface  the  inexhaustable  treasures  of  this  Sweden  of  the 
New  World.  Who  shrdl  then  know  or  care — indeed,  what 
will  it  matter  7 — that  I,  a  tired  wanderer  from  the  city's  cease-: 
less  strife,  once  roamed  along  these  shores,  patiently  turning' 
over  the  pebbles  and  sand,  just  above  the  line  of  the  breaking- 


128 


LAKE    SUI'EKIOK. 


waves,  in  search  of  agates  and  cornelians,  or  joyously  gatlier- 
in'i-  in  aiUunin  the  red  berries  of  the  mountain  ash,  and  all 
for  thee,  dear  son  of  my  heart!  polar  sunuuer  of  my  rug- 
ged life !  then  so  anxiously  awaiting  me  in  our  distant  cot- 
tage home,  as  now  more  calmly  in  the  radiant  Liind  of  Souls. 
God  keep  me  worthy  of  thy  love  and  presence  through  the 
weary  years,  few  or  many,  till  I  meet  thee  and  greet  thee  in 
that  world  where  the  loving  reunite  to  be  parted  no  more  for- 
ever ! 


'■m 


THE    TEMPERANCE    HOME. 


BT    MRS.    E.    JESSUF    EAMES. 


CHAPTER    I. 

HOME. 

Wine,  wine  thy  power  and  praise 
Have  ever  been  echoed  in  minstrel  lays — 
But  water  I  deem  hath  a  higher  claim 
To  fill  up  a  niche  in  the  Temple  of  fame. 

"  Home  sweet  Home ! "  there  is  no  place  like  it,  be  it  ever 
so  humble  so  long  as  it  is  a  Temperance  Home.  Of  course 
there  are  all  sorts  of  hcnies,  and  there  is  a  vasL  difference  be- 
tween their  merits,  as  we  are  too  painfully  made  aware  by 
contrast — Look  on  this  picture,  then  on  that/  Fortunately  it 
is  the  more  favored  of  the  two  we  are  called  upon  to  describe, 
and  wt  repeat  there  is  no  place  like  the  Temperance  Home. 
We  are  almost  sure  to  find  health,  happiness,  prosperity,  order 
and  intelligence  in  a  home,  whose  inmates  have  "taken  the 


];;.0 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME. 


IModfTc."  Behold  how  good  nnd  jdcasjiDt  it  is  Iosco  them  dwell 
together  in  unity.  The  Angel  of  Good  sheds  the  incense  dew 
of  Heaven  from  his  fanning  pinions  over  the  charmed  circle  of 
kindred,  who  incited  in  the  social  Ijands  of  reciprocal  love,  are 
foinid  moving  harmoniously  in  their  sph'-e  of  delighted  duty. 
All  gentle  oflices,  nnd  useful  charities  are  practised  here.  Here 
in  the  quiet  temple  of  Home  is  the  exclusive  shrine  of  (he  aflfec- 
tions ;  nnd  here  are  the  household  gods  worshiped  with  a  true 
devotion.  Thrice  blessed  is  the  home,  over  which  the  pure 
genius  of  Tempernnce  presides. 


CHAPTER   II. 


A    RHAPSODY. 


And  here^s  to  Thee !  thou  bright  eyed  nnd  blooming  Daugh- 
ters of  Health,  fair  Temperance.  Not  in  richly  cut  crystal — in 
golden  and  silver-chased  goblets,  of  ruby,  red  nnd  amber  colored 
wine,  do  we  pledge  thee  ;  that  were  profanation  indeed  !  But 
in  the  purer,  more  delicious  element  that  sparkles  in  the  depth 
of  streams,  and  shady  springs,  in  the  valley  broklet,  the  meadow 
rill,  and  forest  fountain.  In  such  cooling  nectar,  as  fills  the  per- 
fumed urn  of  the  white  water  Lily — and  the  Iris-hued  vase  of 
the  Tulip — in  the  crystal  bowl  of  the  Lotus,  and  the  pretty 
globe  of  the  Amaranth — in  the  fairy  cup  of  the  Bluebell — and 
the  honey  sweet  chalice  of  the  rich  Rose  Balm — in  such  conse- 
crated draughts  only,  is  it  meet  that  we  pledge  thee,  O,  loveliest 
of  Water  Nymphs !  And  we  chnllenge  ye  too,  0  beautiful 
Creations  of  the  Elder  Time,  whose  birth  was  amid  the  fresh- 


ni 

li 
as 
ea 
toi 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME, 


lai 


acss  of  the  Worlu  !  Ye  Faiins  imd  Fays — bright  dwellers  l)y 
sylvan  streams — Oreades  and  Dryades  of  the  Dorian  Valley — 
Maid  of  the  glossy  fountain — Nymph  of  tin;  waterfall — Comt, 
one  and  all,  ye  long  forgotten  children  of  the  Green  Solitudes ! — 
Thou  fountain  lover  of  fair  Arethusa !  and  thou  bright  haired, 
and  wayward  Undine  !  come  from  your  Ocean  caves,  all  ye 
bright  lingerers,  and  join  us  in  a  cup  of  the  life  giving  element, 
to  our  chosen  friend  Temperance ! 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE    TRIBUTE. 


All  stainless  in  the  holy  white  of  thy  pure  appareling,  thou 
goest  forth,  the  meekly  earnest  messenger  of  Truth  and  Good- 
ness,— omnipotent  in  the  cause  of  Virtue.  Surely  there  was 
joy  in  Heaven,  when  thou  wentest  forth  on  thy  great  and  God- 
like mission,  and  the  rapturous  chant  u(  Angels  followed  thee, 
as  encircled  by  thine  own  beaming  and  beautiful  light,  thou 
earnest  (like  the  blessed  bearer  of  glad  tidings  on  the  mountain 
tops,)  with  healing  on  thy  wings  for  the  nations  of  the  earth. 

0 !  firm  and  faithful  Temperance  on  thy  head 
Blessings  of  Heaven  and  earth,  a  thousand  fold  be  shed ! 


y 


st 


132 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME. 


CHAPTER    IV 


FATHER    MATHEW. 


We  were  oblivious  indeed  to  pass  thee  by  unnamed,  thou 
Savior  and  regenerator  of  hundreds  and  thousands  of  poor  un- 
fortunates of  both  sexes ;  victims  to  that  cursed  "  dri7ik."    Deep, 
and  pv,  e,  and  hving,  is  the  fountain  thou  hast  stired,  and  mighty 
are  the  gushings  of  its  waters.     Threading  thy  way  to  the  sons 
and   daughters   of  fallen   humanity — how  faithfully  a^X  thou 
warn,  how  earnestly  entreat, — how  tenderly  dost  thou  plead  with 
those  erring  ones,  who  on  the  broad  ocean  of  intemperance — 
have  wrecked  every  prospect  that  brightened  their  better  days. 
How  eloquently  thou  persuaded  those  who  tarry  long  at  the 
wine,  that  it  is  a  mocker :  that  strong  drink  is  raging — that  who 
so  is  deceived  there)  y  is  not  wise.     And  in  the  solemn  darkness 
and  despair,  that  broods  over  the  mental  anguish  of  the  stricken 
family,  thou  standest  like  an  Angel  of  Mercy,  administering  the 
Pledge  of  peace,  comfort  and  hope.     Here  in  this  Eden  pic- 
ture before  us — we  behold  traces  of  thy  foot-prints,  they  have 
listened  to  thy  words  of  "  Truth  and  Soberness,"  and  laid  thy 
lessons  to  their  hearts.     Long  be  it  thy  peculiar  mission  to  ele- 
vate the  down-trodden  spirituality  of  man's  imbruted  nature — 
to  waken  his  blunted  sensibility — to  repair  the  beautiful  moral 
edifice,  that  sin  has  made  a  ruin — and  to  restore  unsullied  to  the 
altar,  the  Divine  Image  of  the  Creator.     Truly  the  blessings  of 
all  who  were  ready  to  perish  be  on  thee : — thou  who,  hast  so 
nobly  combatted  with  the  great  destroyer,  the  hydra  headed 
monster,  Drunkenness. 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME. 


133 


CHAPTER    V. 


THE    TEMPERANCE    HOME    WITHOUT. 


This  thank  Heaven !  is  no  Drunkard's  Home.  No  miserable 
falling  hut,  with  its  weed  grown  patch  of  ground — its  l)rokcn 
walls, — and  rag  stuffed  windows.  No  idle  inebriate  of  a  hus- 
band whose  reeling  step,  strikes  sorrow  and  dismay  to  the  hearts 
of  his  family : — no  pale,  grief- worn  despaii  ing  wife — with  a 
fiqualid  brood  of  half  starved,  half  clad  children !  Thank 
Heaven  1  say — this  Book  has  but  one  such  Picture  ! 

Let  us  pause  awhile,  and  contemplate  the  scene  that  is  spread 
without  the  Temperance  Home.  This  is  a  pleasant  enough 
looking  place  half  hid  in  a  grove  of  elm,  maple  and  flowering 
ash ;  with  a  richly-fruited  orchard  in  the  rear,  and  a  gay  flower 
garden  in  front.  The  surroundings  betoken  a  family  not  rich, 
but  possessing  a  competency,  and  everything  wears  the  appear- 
ance that  a  W'^11  ordered  temperance  home  should  present. 

Climbing  plants  and  creeping  vines  (for  which  the  poets  has 
no  name)  twine  and  twist  in  graceful  profusion  around  the  rustic 
pillars  of  the  pretty  porch,  running  over  the  long  roof  in  every 
direction,  and  weaving  above  the  attic  windows,  a  green  and 
fragrant  curtain  of  leaves  and  blossoms.  Roses  and  honey- 
suckles— the  white  clematis,  and  purple  morning-glory,  are 
tastefully  trained  along  the  front  windows ;  and  the  bright 
flower-beds  beneath  send  up  a  "  wilderness  of  sweets." 

Yonder  is  an  arbor,  built  between  two  graceful  weeping  wil- 
lows, whose  slender  boughs  with  their  silver-fringed  tassels,  meet 
over  the  arching  roof.  The  purple  and  white  fruited  grapevine 
clusters  along  the  trellised  sides  of  the  arbor,  and  within  arr 
disposed  romantic  seats  of  green  and  golden  mosses. 


134 


THE   TEMPERANCE    HOME. 


Farther  on  in  a  sunny  spot  among  the  sweet  clover,  is  ranged 
u  row  of  bee  hives  —  whose  golden  belted  inmates,  like  their 
owners,  "  improve  each  shining  hour."  Mark  how  tastefully 
the  little  dove  cotes  are  painted  and  perched  among  the  trees : 
and  those  two  milk-white  lambs  (pet  ones,  are  they  t)  frisking 
and  frolicking  through  the  scented  grass.  To  make  the  pictme 
complete, — off  there  in  the  shade  of  the  poplars,  is  a  well — 
a  real  old  fashioned  well,  with  the  "  moss  covered  iron-bound 
bucket "  and  all.     Is  it  not  the  very  poetry  of  rural  life  1 


CHAPTER    VI 


FAMILY     DEVOTION. 


Yes,  one  can  very  well  see  that  this  is  a  Temperance  Home, 
but  anxious  as  we  are  to  make  nearer  acquaintance  with  its 
inmates,  we  could  not  think  of  disturbing  the  sanctity  of  their 
present  position — 

For  there  serene  in  happy  age 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  Father  communes  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 
Pure  falls  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright 

On  his  grey  holy  hair. 
Touching  the  page  with  tenderest  light 

As  though  its  shrine  were  there. 
Some  words  of  life,  e'en  now  have  met 

H'"    calm  benignant  eye — 
Some  Ancient  Promise  breathing  yet 

Of  Immortality. 


THE   TEMPERANCE    HOME.  135 

And  silent  bend  his  children  by, 

flushing  their  very  breath 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'er  sweeping  death. 

Surely  if  happiness  is  to  be  found  on  earth  it  is  in  a  home 
like  this,  when  the  morning  and  evening  thanksgiving  ascends 
to  heaven — and  where  the  bliss  of  its  members  is  cemented 
by  the  renovating  influences  of  piety,  temperance  and  virtue. 
What  a  perfect  picture  of  domestic  bliss  has  the  artist's  pencil 
portrayed  in  this  interesting  group.  Through  the  open  window 
of  this  pretty  family  room,  we  can  distinctly  count  them — ten 
in  number.  A  large  family  indeed — but  all  well  fed  and  cared 
for,  as  we  can  see.  Those  two  little  prattlers,  each  on  a  pa- 
rent's knee,  are  held  for  the  better  sake  of  quiet  I  dare  say, 
while  the  two  at  the  father's  feet  seem  meek  and  devout  lis- 
teners of  the  word.  That  tall  slender  boy  beside  his  mother  is 
her  summer  child — her  darling  he !  is 

Faithful  and  fond  with  sense  beyond  his  years 
And  natural  piety  that  bears  to  Heaven. 

Then  there  are  the  parents,  and  grand  parents — and  Mabel  too, 
ah ! — We  must  enter  this  privileged  abode  ;  we  have  a  particu- 
lar, and  we  hope  a  pardonable  curiosity,  to  see  the  inside  of  this 
Temperance  Home. 


136 


THE   TEMPERANCE    HOME. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


THE     TEMPERANCE     HOME     WITHIN. 


Here  we  are  tlien,  in  their  very  midst,  and  welcomed  with 
the  simple  but  sincere  cordiality  of  people  unfettered  by  the 
shackles  of  artificial  society — who  never  wear  company  faces, 
and  set  manners  for  reception  days.  If  we  were  enchanted 
with  the  scene  without,  how  is  our  admiration  brightened  by  a 
closer  survey  within. 

It  is  true  no  costly  luxuries  adorn  this  room  of  the  household ; 
no  splendid  paintings — no  superb  cases  of  gold  and  crimson 
bound  books,  aecorate  the  smooth  white  walls;  no  expensive 
bijouterie  —  no  magnificent  modern  furniture  of  any  kind  is 
here — only  a  few  rare  old  prints,  snug  pictures  and  choice  gems 
of  literature,  some  rare  shells  and  curious  corals,  that  fathei 
brought  from  sea ;  these  with  three  or  four  simple  pearl  colored 
vases  filled  with  fresh  wood  flowers,  indicated  the  refined  tastes 
of  the  occupants.  Specimens  of  the  industrial  habits  of  the 
Temperance  Home  are  to  be  seen  in  the  tasteful  chintz-covered 
settees,  and  the  soft  backed  easy  chairs,  stuffed  expressly  for  the 
elders — meantime  these  bright  cushione  seats  of  mosaic  patch- 
work, claim  our  especial  regard,  because  they  are  not  too  fine 
for  use — and  great  is  our  relief  that  we  can  tread  on  the  pretty 
green,  home-made  carpet  without  the  fear  of  W'lton,  or  Brus- 
sels before  our  eyes !  That  society  basket  of  "  work  cut  out," 
must  be  for  the  Daughters  of  Temperance,  and  this  Ijox  of  deli- 
(^ate  embroidering  must  be  Mabels',  cousin  Mabel  of  whom  we 
would  know  more. — What  a  paradise  of  pure  delight,  is  such  a 
home ;  where  infancy,  youth,  manhood,  and  age  are  linked  in 
one  connecting  chain  of   mutuul    affection.     Surrounded   by 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME. 


137 


dutious  and  affectionate  children,  whose  reverential  care  supplies 
every  want  and  wish,  of  the  aged  patriarch,  and  his  half  cen- 
tury companion,  they  are  waiting  patiently  till  their  change 
come.  They  have  set  a  bright  example  of  good  works,  tJirough 
a  long  life  of  truth  and  soberness. 

Their  work  has  well  been  done, 
Their  race  is  nearly  run. 

Their  only  surviving  son,  once  a  wild  sailor  youth  (and  some- 
thing more)  returned  to  his  home — took  the  pledge,  and  after 
one  year's  probation,  a  wife.  He  is  proud  of  his  position  as  a 
great  temperance  advocate  abroad,  and  total  abstinence  at  homo. 
The  neatness,  order,  harmony  and  prosperity  that  surrounds  him 
are  the  fruits  of  his  perseverance  in  well  doing — his  wife — ah, 
her  price  is  far  above  rubies !  She  opens  her  mouth  with  wis- 
dom, and  in  her  tongue  is  the  law  of  kindness — her  children 
rise  up  and  call  her  blessed,  her  husband  also,  he  praiseth  her ! 
— Sixteen  years  have  they  been  man  and  wife,  and  years  as 
happy  fc*  them  as  the  most  complete  uprightness,  and  sobriety 
on  his  part,  and  the  most  perfect  confidence,  and  loving  submis- 
sion on  hers  could  make  them.  Those  cherry-cheeked  urchins 
are  one  and  all  bright,  intelligent,  industrious,  well-mannered 
children ;  just  such  as  one  might  expect  to  find  in  a  well 
ordered  home,  and  as  had  the  happiness  to  be  taught  by  a 
cousin  Mabel.  Yes,  she  is  the  childrens,  good  fairy !  Cousin 
Mabel  is  always  doing  something  for  their  pleasure  and  profit — 
she  sympathizes  in  all  their  little  joys  and  sorrows — and  is  their 
refuge  in  times  of  trouble.  She  not  only  dresses  the  girls'  dolls, 
and  cuts  paper  figures  for  them,  covers  balls  for  the  boys,  and 
decorates  their  kites,  but  she  takes  part  in  their  play  out  of 
doors.  She  is  a  dear  good  cousin  Mabel,  she  is — and  tells  them 
such  stories,  not  only  in  prose  but  poetry  too :  and  above  all 


138 


THE  TEMPERANCE  HOME. 


there  is  one  one  beautiful  ballad  that  they  never  weary  of  hear- 
ing, it  is  called  "  Mabel's  song,"  and  have  we  "ever  heard  it," 
"  No" — then  they  will  ask  her  presently,  but  now,  will  we  look  at. 


CHAPTER    VIII 


COUSIN     MABEL. 


0,  YES !  to  please  the  children  we  will  look.  That  young 
girl  there  is  Mabel,  raven-haired  Mabel !  with  eyes  "  darker 
than  the  ash-buds,"  with  the  clear  olive  complexion ;  the  broad 
intellectual  forehead ;  the  sculptured  cheek  and  classic  mouth. 
Mabel,  with  the  still  grace  of  a  statue  or  the  perfect  form,  and 
pensive  face,  and  with  such  exquisite  simplicity  of  attire,  as  well 
as  demeanor,  that  one  might  deem  the  freshness  and  beauty  of 
the  early  time  had  returned.  Though  there  is,  as  one  can  see, 
nothing  rustic  about  cousin  Mabel;  on  the  contrary,  she  has 
that  indescribable  air  of  elegance  and  ease,  which  is  the  result 
of  early  intercourse  with  the  most  refined  society.  She  is  young 
too,  not  more  than  seventeen ;  and,  there  is  an  expression  not 
wholly  sad,  but  touchingly  subdued,  on  her  clear  calm  face,  as 
for  some  remembered  sorrow,  some  former  trial,  passed  away. 
We  hope  cousin  Mabel  is  happy,  as  she  ought  to  be,  in  her 
Temperance  Home. 

We  have  made  neither  mystery  nor  romance  of  our  sunple 
theme,  and  have  availed  ourselves  of  none  of  the  attractions 
of  fiction,  to  embellish  our  picture ;  for  it  has  been  our  inten- 
tion more  to  point  a  moral  than  adorn  a  tale  ;  and  while  we 
would  fain  linger  forever,  were  it  possible,  in  a  scene  that  has 


THE   TEMPERANCE   HOME. 


139 


awakened  our  highest  sense  of  pure  and  rational  enjoyment, 
it  is  only  left  us  to  add  our  entreaties  to  these  little  coaxers — that 
cousin  Mabel  will,  as  a  parting  favor,  gratify  us  by  a  recital  of 
that  "  One  beautiful  Ballad." 


A 


BMIL' 


BAILILAIDo 


A  SHORT  and  simple  tale,  dear  friends,  yet  I  will  tell  it  you ; 

A  simple  tale  of  household  love,  and  household  sorrow  too. 

I  dwelt  in  a  fine  mansion  once,  a  noble  one  to  see, 

With  parents  and  three  brothers  dear,  a  happy  group  were  we. 

My  father  was  a  stern,  proud  man,  not  always  stern  to  me ; 

For  oft  he  strok'd  my  silken  curls,  and  held  me  on  his  knee. 

My  mother,  she  was  very  fair,  like  an  Angel,  sweet  and  miM, 

O,  God !  with  what  deep  tenderness,  her  blue  eye  on  me  smil'd. 

My  brothers  three,  were  goodly  youths,  with  spii-its  bold  and  free  ; 

They  loved  me  well,  but  most  /  loved,  the  youngest,  twin  with  me. 

Our  house  was  filled  with  company,  a  gay  and  jovial  throng. 

The  dice  was  thrown — and  the  wine — ah,  me !  at  the  revel  loud  and 

long : 
My  mother's  gentle  heart  was  wrung,  I  know  it  grieved  her  sore, 
But  she  might  not  check  her  husband's  guests,  and  therefore  she  for- 
bore: 
But  soon  a  time  of  trouble  came — dark  grew  my  father's  eye. 
Now  the  cup  was  ever  at  his  lips  to  drown  his  misery ! 
Still  swifter  did  misfortune  come — the  brother  twin  with  me 
Did  pine  away  from  day  to  day — until  we  saw  him  die. 
And  then  it  was,  I  first  observed  my  mother's  hollow  cheek. 
Her  sunken  eye,  and  wasted  form,  and  her  pleasant  voice  gi-ew  weak : 
One  early  morn  I  stole  alone  up  to  her  quiet  bed. 
As  I  kissed  her  icy  lip  and  brow — I  knew  that  she  was  dead ! 


140 


THE    TEMPERANCE    HOME. 


Then  loud  was  the  outbreaking  of  my  father's  sudden  grief, 
But  he  quenched  it  in  the  cursed  drink  !  and  it  made  his  sorrow  brief. 
Through  this,  my  brothers  turned  out  wild,  and  'mid  the  profligate 
They  crept  into  all  evil  ways — I  know  not  now  their  fate! 
Houses,  and  lands,  a>id  friends,  were  gone,  and  very  poor  were  we, 
And  father  went  from  bad  to  worse,  still  drinking  desperately ! 
It  was  a  miserable  time,  of  jmin,  and  want,  and  woe ! 
And  how  the  hopeless  hours  went  on,  ^  do  not  care  to  show : 
M?"  God  forgive  me !  that  I  wept  not  when  my  father  died 
^  sudden  death !  they  brought  him  home  one  stormy  eventide. 
My  heart  was  heavy  as  a  stone,  as  all  night  long  I  sate, 
And  thought  what  awful  household  vice  had  made  me  desolate. 
But  God  gave  mercy  in  my  need ;  my  kindred  heard  of  me. 
And  bade  me  come  and  dwell  with  them,  if  I  content  would  be. 
And  I  am  comforted :  though  long  the  daughter  of  despair ; 
Amid  these  loving  friends  my  grief  pass'd  like  a  dream  of  care. 
Even  from  these  little  ones  I  do  Buch  daily  lessons  learn, 
As  might  have   saved  my  father's  house,  ah!  how  my  heart  doth 


yearn 


God's  blessing  and  His  holy  peace,  be  on  this  house  and  hearth, 

For  we  have  ta'en  a  solemn  pledge,  the  mightiest  on  earth, 

Never  to  handle,  touch,  or  taste,  or  put  to  human  lips. 

The  cup  that  works  such  woe,  as  doth  all  other  woes  eclipse : 

Thrice  blessing,  and  thrice  blest  are  we,  whatever  ills  may  come. 

The  heavy  curse  of  Drunkenness  haunt^-^  not  the  Temperance  Homa 


THE    SPARKLING    BOWL. 

BY    REV.    J.    PIERPONT. 

Thou  sparkling  Bowl !  thou  sparkling  bowl ! 
Though  lips  of  bards  thy  brim  may  press; 
And  eyes  of  beauty  o'er  thee  roll, 
And  song  and  dance  thy  power  confess, 
I  will  not  touch  Thee !  for  there  clings 
A  Scorpion  to  thy  side,  that  stings'? 

Thou  Crystal  glass !  Like  Eden's  Tree, 

Thy  melted  ruby  tempts  the  eye, 

And,  as  from  that,  there  comes  from  thee, 

The  Voice,  "  Thou  shalt  not  surely  die," 

T  dare  not  lift  thy  liquid  gem, 

A  snake  is  twisted  round  thy  stem ! 


J 

*. 


Thou  liquid  fire !  like  that  which  glowed 
On  Melita's  surf  beaten  shore, 
Thou'st  been  upon  my  guests  bestowed, 
But  thou  shalt  warm  my  house  no  more ! 
For,  wheresoe'er  thy  radiance  falls. 
Forth  from  thy  hea'  a  viper  crawls. 


142  THE  SPARKLING  BOWL. 

What  Tlioii  of  gold  the  gol)let  be, 
Embossed  with  branches  of  the  vine, 
Beneath  whose  burnished  leaves  we  see 
Such  clusters  os  poured  out  the  wine. 
Among  those  leaves  an  adder  hangs! 
T  fear  him ; — for  I've  felt  his  fangs. 

The  Hebrew,  who  the  desert  trod, 
And  felt  the  fiery  serpent's  bite, 
Looked  up  to  that  ordained  of  God, 
And  found  that  life  was  in  the  sight 
So.     The  worm  bitten's  fiery  veins 
Cool,  wh  m  he  drinks  what  God  ordains. 

Yt  gracious  clouds !  Ye  deep  cold  wells ! 
Ye  gems,  from  mossy  rocks  that  drip ! 
Springs,  that  from  Earth's  mysterious  cells 
Gush  o'er  your  granite  basin's  lip., 
To  yon  I  look; — Your  largess  give. 
And  I  will  drink  of  you,  and  live. 


a 


1'-;.^^: 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


BY    REV.     J.     TOWN  LEY    CRANE,    11. 


On  the  Euphrates,  about  four  hundred  miles  from  tlie  Persian 
Gulf,  a  singular  scene  is  spread  before  the  wondering  eye  of  the 
traveler.  The  majestic  river  winds  through  an  extended  plain. 
In  some  places,  its  banks  are  fringed  with  groves  of  the  palm 
and  the  tamarisk,  and  thickets  of  the  oleander,  and  in  others  by 
extensive  marshes,  where  the  bittern  utters  its  mournful  note, 
and  the  heron  builds  her  nest  among  the  thick  reeds.  As  the 
voyager  advances  against  the  sluggish  stream,  he  observes  upon 
the  left,  or  western  shore,  an  object  which  at  once  arrests  his 
attention.  In  the  midst  of  a  barren  plain,  an  uncultivated 
waste,  rises  an  immense  mound.  Its  circumference  is  nearly 
half  a  mile ;  and  its  height,  at  the  point  of  greatest  elevation, 
is  about  two  hundred  feet.  On  its  top  stands  a  pile  of  masonry, 
apparently  the  ruins  of  some  lofty  edifice.  The  traveler  com- 
mands: his  Arab  boatmen  to  bring  the  vessel  to  the  shore. 
Though  they  obey,  yet  they  are  evidently  reluctant ;  for,  from 
lime  immemorial,  superstition  has  pointed  to  this  spot  as  the 
hauu^  of  evil  spirits,  and  the  Avandering  Arabs  fear  to  pitch 


! 


144 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OK  UELSIIAZZAR. 


their  tents  there,  or  to  linger  within  its  honleis,  especially  after 
nightfall.  As  the  traveler  begins  to  ascend,  with  much  labor, 
the  hill  before  him,  he  finds  the  whole  to  be  a  massive  ruin, 
deeply  channeled  by  the  storms  of  centuries,  and  strewn  with 
fragments  of  brick,  sandstone  and  marble.  Here  and  there,  the 
strata  of  well  laid  walls  appear,  and  all  around  are  pieces  of 
broken  pottery,  and  other  indications  that  this  lonely  heap  was 
once  swarming  with  human  life.  The  sununit  of  the  mound  is 
covered  with  fragments  of  shattered  walls,  tumbled  in  immense 
heaps  and  fused  together  as  if  they  had  felt  the  power  of  some 
fearful  conflagration.  On  the  side  farthest  from  the  river,  the 
solid  pile  of  brick  work  rises  above  the  surrounding  ruin,  as  the 
sentinel  of  desolation ;  and  its  broken  jagged  top  shows  that  it 
is  only  the  remains  of  a  loftier  structure.  The  fine  bricks  of 
which  it  is  composed  are  covered  with  characters  which  no  learn 
ing  is  able  to  decipher,  and  which  hold  in  eternal  silence,  the 
story  of  those  whose  hands  traced  their  ever  during  lines. 

From  this  memento  of  human  labor,  the  traveler  casts  his  eyes 
south  and  west,  and  beholds  a  wide  plain,  whose  solitude  is 
broken  only  by  a  chance  cluster  of  the  black  tents  of  the  wand- 
ering sons  of  Ishmael.  But  to  the  north  and  east  mounds  rise, 
and  uneven  ridges  stretch  along  the  plain,  heaped  here  and 
there  with  piles  of  bricks,  as  if  remains  of  fallen  buildings. 

Here,  then,  if  history  tells  a  sure  tale,  or  if  tradition  be  in 
any  wise  worthy  of  regard,  stood,  three  thousand  years  ago,  the 
mighty  city  of  Babylon.  These  mounds  are  the  vestiges  of  her 
fallen  grandeur,  her  palaces  and  her  temples,  and  these  length- 
ened heaps  mark  the  course  of  her  broa  avenues.  A  nation's 
dust  is  under  our  feet.  What  utter  desolation  reigns,  where  more 
than  a  million  of  human  beings  once  had  their  home.  Miles  in 
length,  and  miles  in  breadth,  the  ruins  lie  beneath  the  eye  of 
the  thoughtful  observer,  as  he  views  the  scene  from  the  top  of 


THE    LAST    RF.VEL    OF    HKLSHAZZAR. 


145 


Bins  NiMuoi),  as  (lie  roviiij;^  Anilts  cull  the  nioiuid  fiisf,  (U'sciihed. 
But  anollicr  inoimd,  at  the  distance  of  six  or  seven  miles  to  the 
north,  across  the  J^iphrates,  is  the  most  strikinu^  ol)ject  in  sight. 
This,  too,  is  a  massy  ruin.     'I'ht'  fallen  walls  are  in  some  places 
composed  of  laniied  l)rick,  and  in  others,  of  hricks  dried  in  the 
sun,  haviui,''  a  layer  of  straw  or  reeds,  cemented  with  ititiunen, 
hetween  the  courses.     In  one  part  of  the  summit  are  the  ruins 
of  a  tower.     The  declivities  of  the  mound  are  furroued  ('eeply 
by  the  rains;  and  the  water,  sinkinj^  down  among  the  fallen 
walls,  has  washed  out  cavernous  depths,  in  which  poisonous  ser- 
pents lurk,  and  Iteiists  of  prey  make  their  dens;  and  where  owls 
and  hats  hide  themselves  from  the  sim.     The  scattered  bones  of 
animals  lie  among  fragments  of  alabaster  vessels,  and  fine  earth- 
enware ;  and  the  hyena  has  his  den,  and  utters  his  startling  wail 
in  the  chambers  of  royalty.     This  mound,  with  its  wall,  and 
tower,  and  solitary  tamarisk,  is  named  by  the  wanderers  of  the 
desert  JMiiJelihe,  or  the  "  Place  of  Captivity."     It  may  have 
been  a  palace  erected  for  their  lords,  by  the  captive  l)auds  of 
Judah,  when  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon  they  sat  down ;  and  w^^yL 
when  they  remembered  Sion.      Here  was  once  disinterred  a 
coffin  of  wood,  containing  human  bones ;  and  here,  too,  curious 
explorers  from  a  distant  land  uncovered  a  c^  lossal  lion  of  stone, 
which  once  perchance,  stood  in  the  halls  of  Scmiramis. 

But  let  us  roll  back  the  wheels  of  Time,  through  twenty-five 
centuries,  and  view  the  city  in  its  original  grandeur.  Babylon 
the  Great,  "  the  Golden  City,"  the  "  Lady  of  Kingdoms," 
"  the  Beauty  of  the  Chaldees  excellency,"  was  built  upon  both 
sides  of  the  Euphrates,  and  surrounded  by  a  wall  two  hundred 
cubits  high,  and  so  thick  that  it  might  have  furnished  a  course 
for  the  chariot  races,  were  it  not  that  tow^ers,  at  intervals  along 
its  broad  top,  broke  the  level,  while  they  imparted  additional 
grandeur  to  the  juassy  structure.  The  city  was  twelve  miles 
^  10 


110 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


square,  and   the  wall   upon  each  of  the  sides  was  pierced  hy 
twenty-five  portals,  the  ponderous  gates  of  whiclx  were  of  solid 
brass.     The  western  half  of  the  city  boasted  the  temple  of  Belus, 
whose  fame  has  reached  all  ears.     This  wonderful  structure  was 
a  furlong-  in  length,  and  lifted  itself  to  the  enormous  height  of 
four  hundred  cubits.     From  various  circumstances,  antiquarians 
have  inferred  that  it  was  built  upon  the  foundation  of  the  great 
tower,  wherewith  the  sons  of  men,  in  the  plains  of  Sliinar, 
thought  to  set  a  second  deluge  at  defiance.     The  tower  of  Belus 
was   constructed   of  bricks,    cemented   with   bitumen ;  and   so 
dural)le  have  the  materials  proved,  that  the  bricks,  marked  with 
inscriptions  in  the  ancient  Semitic  tongue,  may  be  seen  in  vast 
quantities  to  this  day ;  and  even  the  reeds  and  palm  leaves  laid 
between  the  courses,  are  as  fresh  as  if  the  storms  of  a  few  years, 
instead  of  those  of  twenty-five  centuries,  had  fallen  upon  them. 
Instead  of  flights  of  steps,  the  dizzy  height  was  ascended  by 
a  sloping  terrace,  winding  round  the  outside,  iip  and  down, 
which  beasts  of  burden,  and  even  chariots,  could  pass.     Upon 
the  summit  there  was  a  magnificent  shrine,  or  chapel,  in  which 
was  a  couch  gorgeously  adorned  with  gold  and  gems;  and  b"- 
fore  this  couch  stood  a  golden  talile.     The  Chaldeai  priests 
taught  the  jieople  that  at  niglit  their  God  descended  and  reposed 
upon  this  couch.     In  another  part  of  the  temple  was  a  golden 
statue,  twelve  cubits  high,  and  of  inunense  value.     Before  the 
door  of  the  sacred  apartment  two  altars  were  placed,  upon  which 
victims  innumerable  bled,  and  whence  clouds  of  incense  ascend- 
ed.    The  incense  burned  at  one  festival  was  valued  at  a  thou- 
sand talents.      In  this  temple  was  the  treasure  house  of  Bel, 
filled  with  the  plundered  wealth  of  the  many  cities  which  had 
been  sacked  by  the  conquering  Nebuchadnezzar.     Among  these 
heaps  of  treasure,  were  the  golden  and  silver  vessels  which  had 
been  taken  from  the  temple  of  Jehovah  at  Jerusalem,  when  the 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


147 


w.Tilikc  prince  laid  waste  the  Holy  City  and  canied  lior  cliildicii 
captive. 

The  banks  of  the  Euphrates  were  connected  by  a  bridge,  anil 
a  tunnel ;  and  at  each  end  of  the  bridge  there  was  a  royal  palace. 
The  New  Palace,  on  the  eastern  or  Kasdini  side  of  the  liver, 
was  a  most  magnificent  structure.  The  wall  which  encompass- 
ed it  was  eight  miles  in  circuit,  and  its  lofty  gates  were  "  glori- 
ously adorned."  Here  were  the  royal  banqueting  halls,  with 
their  hangings  of  the  famed  Babylonian  purple,  their  tables  of 
embossed  silver,  and  their  pavements  of  the  marble  of  Mosid. 
Nothing  could  be  more  imposing  than  a  festal  scene  in  these 
ample  apartments.  Himdreds  of  Chaldean  nobles,  in  costly 
and  picturesipie  array,  glittering  with  gems  and  eml)roidery,  sat 
down  to  the  feast.  A  crowd  of  slaves,  e^'ery  feature  of  whose 
sorrow  stricken  "■ountenances  told  of  the  lineage  of  Abraham, 
were  gliding  to  and  fro,  bearing  sumptous  viands,  and  goblets  of 
wine,  which  they  presented,  as  they  knelt  before  their  haughty 
lords.  A  thousand  perfumed  lamps  glittered  among  the  rows  of 
stately  colunms  and  shed  their  radiance  upon  the  gay  throng. 
The  air  was  laden  with  the  odor  of  flowers,  and  strains  of  mel- 
ody, from  unseen  bands  of  uuisicians,  tlo.-ited  through  the  cham- 
bers of  mirth.  Around  the  walls  stood  sculptured  elephants 
and  lions,  of  colossal  size,  intermingled  with  huge,  mishappen 
images  of  Nebo,  Nisroch,  Derceto  and  Ananuneleck,  made  of 
every  variety  of  material. 

Near  the  hall  of  bamiuets,  and  connected  with  it  by  llights  of 
marble  steps,  were  the  renowned  hanging  gardens.  Terrace 
rose  above  terrace,  till  they  surpassed  in  height  the  walls  of  the 
city.  This  ''Pensile  Paradise,"  as  the  Jewish  historian  styles 
it,  was  erected  by  king  Nebuchadnezzar,  to  gratify  his  quei^n 
Amytis,  who  wearied  of  the  unbroken  plain  of  Balndonia,  and 
pined  to  behold  the  green  hills  of  her  native  Media.     The  arch 


w 


148 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


Iicing  unknown,  ininionse  piers  were  erected,  anil  j;  'ned  at  their 
summits,  with  broat  flat  stones.  These  again  were  covered  with 
layers  of  bricks,  cementi  .vith  biiumen.  And  upon  the  ter- 
races thus  formed,  earth  was  spread  deep  enough  to  sustain  not 
only  the  orange,  the  fig-tree  and  the  vine,  but  even  the  beauti- 
ful tamarisk,  and  the  tall  and  graceful  palm.  Upon  these  dizzy 
h(Mghts,  the  queen  could  walk  forth  and  breath  the  balmy  air  of 
the  sununer  evening,  and  nnise  over  the  lovely  scene,  as  the 
moon,  the  goddess  to  whom  she  idolatrously  bowed,  was  pouring 
a  flood  of  pearly  light  u})on  the  lofty  towers  and  proud  palaces 
of  Babylon,  and  turning  the  broad  Euphrates  into  a  stream  of 
molten  silver.  The  solitary  tamarisk,  which  still  stands  upon 
one  of  the  heaps  of  ruins,  is  fancied  by  the  Arabs  to  be  one  of 
the  trees  which  flourished  in  the  gardens  of  Amytis  ;  and  that  it 
vras  miraculously  preserved  that  the  brave  Ali  might  tie  his 
war-horse  to  it,  after  the  battle  of  Hillah.  The  mass  of  ruins 
which  it  crowns  is  called  by  them  El-Kasr,  or  The  Palace. 

The  iiUerest  with  which  we  survey  these  heajjs  of  ruins  is 
heightened  by  the  tangled  mass  of  fact  and  fable  of  which  their 
history  is  woven.  No  name  in  ancient  story  falls  upon  the  ear 
with  a  more  familiar  sound  than  that  of  Semiramis,  the  warlike 
(iueen  of  Chaldea ;  but  when  did  she  sway  the  sceptre  1  The 
learned  labor  and  dispute  over  their  conflicting  dates,  and  wan- 
der doubtingly  ov(m-  a  misty  interval  of  fifteen  centuries.  Tra- 
dilionjiry  fables  tell  us  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  goddess 
Derceto ;  and  being  al)andoned  by  her  mother  in  her  infancy, 
she  was  adopted  and  nourished  l)y  a  flock  of  doves.  She  be- 
came the  wife  of  Ninus,  the  king  of  Assyria,  and  when  he 
died,  or,  as  some  say,  was  nuirdered  by  her  conuuand,  she  seiz- 
ed the  sceptre  with  a  resolute  hand.  She  built  the  city  of 
Babylon,  the  magnificence  of  which  almost  transcends  belief. 
Then,  putting  herself  at  the  head  of  her  army,  she  marched 


I 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


UO 


in  Iriuiupli  through  the  nations,  and  atUletl  Ethiopia  and  Lyhiu 
to  her  dominions.  She  tlien  planned  the  conquest  of  India, 
the  land  of  gold ;  hut  suffering  a  terrible  defeat  by  the  royal 
Stabrobates,  she  returned  home,  and  being  assassinated  by  her 
son,  slie  was  translated  from  earth,  as  it  was  asserted,  in  the 
form  of  a  dove,  and  was  seen  no  more.  From  this  time,  the 
Chaldean  annals  are  filled  with  the  names  of  sovereigns,  whose 
united  reigns  are  made  to  extend  through  twelve  centuries,  but 
whose  whole  line  may  be  but  a  fable.  The  reliable  history 
of  the  empire  resumes  with  the  names  of  Nabopolassar  and 
Nebuchadnezzar,  the  latter  of  wliom  ascended  the  throne  in 
the  year  G04  B.  C.  He  reigned  long  and  gloriously.  He  drove 
out  the  Syrians  who  had  invaded  his  dominions.  He  captured 
Nineveh,  the  haughty  rival  of  Bal)ylon,  and  laid  its  glories  low. 
He  invaded  Egypt,  humbled  its  monarch  in  the  dust,  and  re- 
duced to  his  sway  all  the  region  between  the  Euphrates  and 
the  Nile.  He  then  turned  towards  Judea,  defeated  its  armies, 
entered  Jerusalem  in  triumph,  and  returned  home  laden  with 
the  spoils  of  the  Holy  Temple,  and  leading  the  Jewish  king 
captive.  He  now  resolved  to  beautify  and  adorn  his  capital. 
Palaces  and  towers  ros(>  beneath  his  hand,  and  with  every  addi- 
tion to  the  splendor  of  the  nrghty  city,  the  monarch's  heart 
swelled  with  new  pride,  till  he  could  say,  as  he  trod  the  lofty 
walls  and  looked  abroad  upon  the  work  of  his  hands,  "  Is  not 
this  great  Babylon,  that  I  have  built  for  the  house  of  the  king- 
dom, by  the  might  of  my  power,  and  for  the  honor  of  my  ma- 
jesty v 

But  the  proud  monarch  fell  before  one  mightier  than  he,  even 
the  King  of  Terrors ;  and  the  saying  went  forth  among  his  peo- 
ple that  he,  like  Seiniramis,  had  been  conveyed  away  from 
earth,  in  a  supernatural  manner.  His  son,  Evil-Merodach, 
ascended  the  throne,  but  soon  perished  by  the  dagger  of  the 


I 


>-  • 


I 


150 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


assassin.     To  him  succeeded  Belshazzar,  who  found  himself 
the  undisputed  lord  of  an  empire  in  the  meridian  of  its  splen- 
dor,    lie  might  have  reigned  with  honor,  and  left  a  name  hal- 
lowed in  the  memories  of  a  grateful  nation.     But,  alas !  ho  was 
an  unworthy  successor  of  the  great  Nebuchadnezzar.     He  loved 
wine.     So  intent  was  he  on  his  degrading  joys,  that  he  even 
surrendered  the  reigns  of  government  to  his  mother,  Nitocris, 
I  hat  no  serious  occupation  might  disturb  his  dreams  of  indo- 
lence, or  his  pursuit  of  sensual  pleasures.     The  wealth  of  king- 
doms was  lavished  on  splendid  pageants,  and  luxurious  enter- 
luinments.     The  nobles  of  the  empire  crowded  to  the  capital, 
not  to  consult  concerning  the  common  weal,  but  to  revel  in  the 
halls  of  Semiramis.     The  ill-starred  Belshazzar  phmgcd  deej), 
iind  deeper  still,  into  the  degrading  joys  of  wine  and  eflemi- 
nacy,  till  his  limbs  'ottered  beneath  his  weight,  while  his  in- 
flamed countenance  and  bloodshot  eye,  spoke  the  monarch  of 
Chaldea  the  slave  of  his  passions  and  appetites.     The  courtiers 
were  not  slow  in  imitating  their  i)rince.      Wine-bibbing   and 
revelry  reigned  in  the  great  city,  ''^  The  Glory  of  Kingdoms." 
A  iiistorian,  worthy  of  credit,  assures  us  that  "  Every  class  of 
society  was  addicted  to  habitual  intoxication.^^     It  corrupted  the 
court ;  it  turned  the  halls  of  justice  into  scenes  of  mockery  and 
oi)pression  ;  it  added  to  the  rank  licentiousness  which  marked 
the  vile  worship  of  the  vile  gods ;  and  even  in  the  camp,  where 
discipline  and  rigor  should  be  found,  it  stole  away  the  skill  of 
the  general  and  the  strength  of  the  soldier. 

But  while  the  "  Mighty  Prince  of  B(4"  and  his  wine-loving 
courues  were  drowning  their  munho  >d  in  the  cup  of  the  drunk- 
ard, a  new  power  was  rapidly  rising  in  the  East.  The  Medes 
and  the  Persians  were  br^ginning  to  gather  might.  The  soldiers 
ol'  Iran  and  Azerbijan,  led  on  bj  the  great  Cyrus,  were  sweep- 
ing all  before  them.     At  the  sound  of  their  rushing  horsemen. 


SI 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


151 


their  chariots  of  war,  and  the  stately  march  of  the  soUd  masses 
of  tl  eir  steel-clad  infantry,  nations  were  dismnyed,  and  kings 
threw  their  crowns  in  the  dust,  rnd  humbly  sued  for  peace. 
This  army  was  not  composed  of  the  effeminate  children  of 
luxury,  but  of  the  hardy  sons  of  toil,  fresh  from  the  mountains 
of  the  north.  Li!ve  a  strong-winged  eagle  from  their  native 
hills,  they  swept  down  upon  the  prey.  Their  general,  too, 
had  gained  strength  of  arm  in  his  youthful  conflicts  with  the 
panther  and  the  lion  ;  aad  he  was  taught  wisdom  and  temper- 
ance by  the  workings  of  his  own  powerful  intellect.  A  little 
incident  of  his  boyhood,  as  related  by  Xenophon,  will  illustrate 
the  character  of  this  nol)le  son  of  Iran. 

When  he  was  about  the  age  of  twelve  years,  he  with  Man 
dane  his  mother,  was  summoned  to  the  court  of  Astyages,  his 
grasidfather,  a  prince  of  Media.  "  0  Sire,"  said  the  youthful 
Cyrus,  one  day,  as  they  were  seated  at  the  banquet,  "  command 
this  Sacian  cup-bearer  to  give  me  the  goblet,  that  I  may  show 
how  well  I  can  serve  you."  The  king,  amused  at  the  request, 
assented,  and  the  cup  was  placed  in  his  hand.  Cyrus,  having 
received  it,  assumed  a  grave  countenance,  and  very  gracefully 
handed  it  to  his  grandfather,  and  then,  laughing,  threw  himself 
into  his  arms,  exclaiming,  "  0,  Sacian.  thou  art  undone,  and  I 
shall  have  thy  office !  For  I  gave  the  cup  in  better  style  than 
thou  :  besides,  I  did  not  drink  the  wine  !  "  It  appears  to  have 
been  a  common  custom  for  the  butlers  of  kings,  when  they  pre- 
sented the  cup  to  their  masters,  to  pour  out  a  little  of  the  con- 
tents into  their  left  hand,  and  drink  it,  to  show  that  no  treachery 
had  infused  poison  into  the  cup,  in  hope  of  destroying  a  tyrant 
or  a  rival.  Astyages,  remarking  Cyrus'  omission  of  this  cere- 
mony, in([uired  the  reason :  "  Wherefore,  O  Cynis,  didst  thou 
not  taste  the  wine?"  "Because,  by  Leus,"  replied  the  boy, 
'*  I  was  afraid   that  there  was  poison  mingled  with  the  wine. 


152 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


VVlicii  Uiou  didst  feast  thy  friends  upon  thy  birth-day,  I  saw 
phiiniy,  O  Sire,  that  this  wicked  Sacion  was  poisoning  you." 
"  Chikl,"  asked  the  king-,  "  how  didst  thou  know  tliis?  "  "By 
the  ellecls,"  (uiswered  C3'rus,  "  I  saw  you  tottering  in  body  and 
in  mind.  What  you  had  forl^idden  us  chil  Iren  (o  do,  tliosc  very 
things  you  did  yourselves.  You  all  clamor ?d  at  the  same  time, 
each  knowing  nothing  of  what  the  others  were  saying.  And 
then  you  sang,  in  a  most  ridiculous  manner.  Nobody  listened: 
but  each  swore  that  he  sang  better  than  all  the  rest.  Then, 
boasting  of  your  skill,  you  all  rose  up  to  dance :  but  you  were 
not  only  unai^le  to  dance  according  to  the  measure,  but  even 
to  keep  yourselves  from  falling.  And  you  and  your  servants, 
alike,  wliolly  forgot  that  you  were  a  king." 

But  C}  rus  was  now  a  man,  his  acute  mind  trained  to  thought, 
and  his  vigorous  body  inured  to  toil.  And  this  was  the  general, 
who,  in  carrying  on  his  schemes  of  ooncjuest,  led  his  veterans 
against  the  voluptuous  Belshazzar,  and  his  effeminate  troops. 
They  met  in  the  open  field ;  and,  the  result  was  such  as  all 
must  rationally  have  anticipated.  The  Chaldean  army  defeat- 
ed again  and  again,  was  melting  away  before  the  lance  of  the 
Mede,  and  the  scimetar  of  Persia,  like  snow-drifts  beneath  the 
sunbeams.  The  wine-loving  Belshazzar,  seeing  nothing  before 
liim  but  continued  defeat  and  ultimate  ruin,  in  this  warfare, 
gave  up  the  plains  to  the  spoiler,  and  took  refuge  within  the 
nn'ghty  walls  of  his  capital,  "  The  Gol  '.^n  City." 

CjTus  pressed  on,  with  his  powerful  army,  to  the  gates  of 
Babylon,  and  showed  his  d'otermination  to  lay  her  pride  and 
splendor  low.  He  stormed  the  brazen  gates  with  his  engines. 
He  cut  down  the  palm  trees  of  the  plain,  and  reared  lofty 
towers,  to  over-top  the  walls ;  and  tried  all  the  modes  of  assault 
known  to  ancient  warfare.  But  all  was  in  vain.  The  massive 
gates  were  unbroken,  and  the  walls  still  towered  in  their  solid 


THE    LAST    REVEL   OF    BELSHAZZAR. 


i-ia 


Strength.  The  citi/ens  of  the  "  Pride  of  the  Kingdoms,"  could 
tiikc  their  walks  of  pleasure  upon  their  proud  battlements,  and 
scc.a,  with  curious  eye,  but  careless  heart,  the  camp  of  their 
foes  spreading  far  and  wide,  and  covering  the  earth  like  a  cloud. 
From  their  inaccessible  lieights,  they  shouted  defiance,  as  they 
saw  the  masses  of  infantry,  clad  in  burnished  armor,  and  drawn 
out  in  long  array ;  or,  as  their  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  brilliant 
lines  of  the  cavalry  of  Media. 

They  felt  secure.  Why  should  they  fear?  They  had  a 
numerous  garrison.  Provisions  for  twenty  years  were  stored  up 
in  the  granaries  of  the  city ;  and  the  space  enclosed  by  the 
walls  was  so  vast,  that  a  considerable  portion  could  be  cultiva- 
ted, should  any  emergency  demand  it.  The  extensive  parks  of 
the  nobles  could  be  made  so  productive,  that  no  famine  need  be 
dreaded,  though  the  siege  should  last  a  generation.  Belshazzar, 
and  bis  court,  his  army  and  his  people,  Avero  so  well  satisfied 
with  their  defences  that  they  seem  to  have  banished  all  concern. 
They  still  pursued  pleasure,  and  spent  their  days  and  nights  in 
revelry.  The  songs  of  musicians  and  the  lascivious  perform- 
ances of  the  dancing  girls,  still  graced  their  feasts,  and  wine 
flowed  as  freely  as  ever.  The  army  of  the  foe  apparently  labor- 
ed for  naught.  Month  after  month  wore  slowly  away  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  seemingly  hopeless  task,  until  two  years  were 
gone ;  and  proud  Babylon  still  lifted  its  palaces  and  towers  to 
the  heavens,  and  stood  unmoved  upon  her  foundations. 

But  a  new  mode  of  assault  now  suggests  itself  to  the  active 
mind  of  the  great  Persian.  While  Nitocris  swayed  the  sceptro, 
she  had  connected  the  two  sides  of  the  river,  within  the  )ity  by 
a  bridge  wliicli  spanned  the  rolling  waters,  and  a  tunnel  lying 
beneath  their  bed.  In  order  to  construct  these  works,  the 
waters  of  the  Euphrates  had  been  drawn  from  their  channel 
into  an  excavation  made  above  the  city  to  receive  them.     When 


154 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSIIAZZAR. 


the  tunnel  was  completed,  the  stream  was  turned  back  into  its 
former  i)lace,  and  the  artificial  lake,  after  a  time,  became  dry. 
The  query  presents  itself  to  the  mind  of  Cyrus — Ciuniot  the 
Euphrates  l)c  diverted  from  its  bed  again  1  If  the  waters  were 
gone,  V  ouii'  not  the  passages  licneath  the  walls  afford  an  cn- 
I.  an  Kf.o  the  city  1  But  the  enterprise  is  fraught  with  danger. 
■|(n  i  ti  \<i  of  the  river,  within  the  city,  are  defended  by  strong 
\\-Mh  ant;  r  xtes  of  brass,  guarded  by  bodies  of  soldiery.  If  he 
were  to  enter  'he  city  thus,  would  he  not  be  discovered  while 
marching  in  the  miry  bed  of  the  river *?  And  would  not  dis- 
covery and  consequent  attack  be  defeat  and  utter  ruin 7  And 
then,  again,  are  not  the  armies  of  Babylon  mightier  at  the  feast, 
than  in  the  field]  Is  not  the  Prince  of  Bel  a  lover  of  vrine,  a 
drunkard  ?  And  is  not  the  Feast  of  Bel  at  hand,  when  all 
the  city  runs  mad  with  riot,  and  is  drowned  in  wine  1 

The  probabilities  seem  to  favor  the  project.  At  all  events, 
the  daring  Cyrus  resolves  to  adopt  it.  He  sends  a  detachment 
of  troops  to  the  canal  which  leads  into  the  lake,  and  gives  them 
orders  to  break  down  the  dam,  at  a  given  signal.  Another 
strong  detachment  is  stationed  where  the  river  flows  beneath 
the  wall  into  the  city,  and  a  third  where  it  emerges  again  ;  and 
each  general  of  division  has  orders  to  enter  the  city  as  soon  as 
the  failing  stream  becomes  fordable.  Night,  the  night  of  mirth, 
feasting  and  revelry,  drew  on.  As  the  last  raj^s  of  the  setting 
sun  faded  from  the  summit  of  the  Temple  of  Belus,  lights  innu- 
merable flashed  out  from  palace  and  festive  hall ;  and  the  whole 
city  was  astir  with  the  noisy  carnival  of  heathenism,  and  the 
unclean  rites  of  Nergal,  Bel,  and  the  "  Tents  of  the  Daugh- 
ters." Careless  multitudes  were  thronging  the  broad  avenues, 
on  their  way  to  the  bancpiet,  the  sluines  of  the  gods,  or  the 
haunts  of  dissipation.     The  merry  sound  of  the  tabret,  and  the 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


155 


softer  notes  of  tlic  dulcimer,  were  heard  on  every  side,  mingled 
with  mirthful  converse,  or  thoughth'ss  hvug-hter. 

Thus  was  the  mighty  city  "  filled  with  feasting  and  drunken- 
ness." But  the  foe  was  steadily  moving  on,  in  his  unseen  way. 
The  embankment  was  broken  down ;  and  the  rushing  stream 
turned  in  the  new  channel,  leaving  the  old  one  empty,  in 
which  the  fiwh,  left  by  the  ebbing  waters,  lay  gasping  among 
the  sands.  The  two  divisions  marched  down  into  the  bed  of 
the  river,  and  entered  the  city.  As  they  had  .^"^d,  they  found 
the  gates  leading  to  the  water,  deserted  ."u:l  oi  a,  their  ap- 
pointed guards  being  more  intent  iijjon  t'  •.,  ioc-cnp,  and  the 
)iiysteries  of  Succoth-bcnoth,  than  watch^^g  >t\  nst  the  enemy. 
Thus  the  army  of  Cyrus  found  entranc  into  the  city  in  the 
siege  of  which,  for  two  years,  they  hud  ,  3>l  theii-  strength  for 
naught. 

But  where  was  the  "  Mighty  Prince  of  Bel,"  at  this  moment 
of  his  ruined  fortunes  ?  I'he  inspired  record  testifies ;  "  Bel- 
shazzar  the  king  made  a  great  feast  to  a  thousand  of  his  lords, 
and  drank  wine  before  the  thousand."  The  nobles  assembled 
to  drink  wine,  with  their  v/inn-loving  prince.  Let  us  endeavor 
to  figure  to  ourselves  the  scene.  L.et  conjectured  probability 
supply  the  omitted  non-essentials  of  history.  We  may  suppose, 
then,  that  one  of  the  halls  of  the  new  palace,  on  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  Euphrates,  was  the  place  of  the  royal  banquet. 
Here,  "  high  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,"  sat  the  king  in  the 
midst  of  dazzling  splendor.  Far  away  stretched  the  rows  of 
porphyry  columns,  till  the  sight  was  lost  in  the  blaze  of  innu- 
merable lamps,  burning  fragrant  oil,  and  shedding  a  light  as  of 
noon  day.  A  thousand  lords  throng  to  meet  their  master  at  an 
employment  more  congenial  to  them,  than  the  cares  of  govern- 
ment, or  the  toils  and  dangers  of  the  camp.  A  thousand  lords 
reclined  upon  couches  of  Babylonian  purple,  before  tables  oi 


tf 


ir.G 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


gold  and  silver,  and  drank  wino  from  goltlcts  sparklinir  with 
gems,  riio  fragrant  l)rcath  of  (lowers  saluted  the  sense  :  and 
the  soft  and  silvery  notes  of  music  floated  round  them.  Beauty, 
too,  added  its  witching  spell.  The  many  wives  and  conctihines 
of  the  monarch,  chosen  from  the  congregated  loveliness  of 
many  lands,  were  there.  Ami  ranged  around  the  walls,  each 
upon  his  lofty  pedestal,  stood  the  images  of  Neho,  and  Tarlak, 
and  the  unnund)ered  gods  of  the  Chaldeans.  Some  like  Anam- 
nieleck,  were  comhinations  of  himianity  and  the  hrute,  the  body 
of  a  man  with  the  head  of  an  ape.  Some  were  in  the  form  of 
hi'rds  of  various  kinds.  And  others  still  were  men  or  w^omcn 
with  many  arms,  like  the  idols  of  the  East,  at  the  present  day. 
The  materials,  too,  were  various ;  from  the  golden  image  with 
eyes  of  diamonds,  to  the  brazen,  the  stone,  and  those  of  cu- 
riously inliu'd  wood.  Thus  Belshazzar  drank  his  wine  ;  and  (he 
song  of  mirth,  and  the  sounds  of  revelry  rose  around  him  on 
every  side,  and  rolled  through  the  lofty  hall.  Belshazzar  drank, 
and  each  gol)let  raised  him  to  a  loftier  pitch  of  arrogance  and 
pride.  His  fawning  cour(iers  vied  with  each  other  in  paying 
fulsome  compliment;  and  the  smiling  king  receives  the  honeyed 
words  with  willin"-  ear. 

A  musician  draws  near  the  foot  of  the  throne,  and  tunes  his 
instrument  in  praise  of  the  intoxicated  monarch.  "  O  Mighty 
prltice  of  Bel,  live  for  ever.  Thou  rulest  from  the  rising  of  the 
sun  ;  to  the  place  where  he  plunges  into  the  waves  of  the  Great 
Sea.  Thou  svvayest  thy  sceptre  among  the  snow-clad  moun- 
tains of  the  North ;  and  the  foamy  billows  of  the  southern 
ocean,  rolling  over  slumbering  pearls,  bow  down  and  pay  thee 
homage.  The  red  lightnings  olx^y  thee  ;  and  the  mighty  thun- 
der is  but  the  voice  of  thy  power.  The  rol)bers  of  Elam,  and 
the  spoilers  of  Persia,  come  up  against  thee ;  but  thou  shalt 
sinite  them.     Thou  shalt  crush  them,  as  (he  wild  elephant  tram- 


\ 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


157 


pies  liis  foe.  Thou  shnlt  rend  them,  ns  the  hung;/  hon  of  the 
desert  rends  his  prey."  AnoUier  nuisician  takes  up  the  simili- 
tude, and  prohjHgs  the  strain.  "  The  hon  of  the  phiin  is  now 
still  in  his  cavern.  He  utters  not  his  terrihle  roar.  He  shakes 
not  his  mane,  nor  hares  his  white  fanj^s.  The  Persians  sees  not 
the  fire-gleaniing  eyes,  and  he  counts  hiiii  as  (he  fearful  fawn  of 
Cashmere,  or  as  the  timid  antelope  of  Kermuu.  Ihit  the  lion 
crouches  that  he  may  spring :  and  soon  will  he  dart  upon  his 
foes  and  scatter  them,  as  the  panther  of  Caucasus  scatters  (he 
Hocks  of  the  shepherd." 

"  13y  the  altar  of  Belus,  and  yonder  sacred  statue,"  exclaims 
the  excited  monarch,  "  the  harper  saith  well,  Le*  gold  he  given 
him."  A  slave  presents  the  crafty  musician  with  a  purse  fdled 
with  broad  pieces.  The  liarper  prostrates  himself  and  touches 
the  marble  pavement  with  his  forehead;  while  the  hall  rings 
with  the  shout,  "  Hail,  Belshaz/ar,  live  for  ever,  the  Glory  of 
Earth,  and  the  Brother  of  the  Sun." 

The  nuisician  arose,  placed  the  purse  in  a  fold  of  his  robe, 
and  again  touched  his  strings. 

"  Our  Prince  is  the  son  of  might.  A  strong  lion  was  his  sire. 
He  trod  the  sands  of  Arai)y,  and  di\  ided  the  spoil  of  Misraim. 
He  lapped  ihe  waters  of  the  Nile  with  his  tongue.  He  uttered 
his  roar  in  Palestina.  He  bounded  over  the  mountains  of 
Judah,  and  bore  the  rich  prey  to  his  lair  in  the  green  reeds  of 
the  Euphrates." 

"  By  the  golden  image  of  Bel,"  exclaimed  the  monarch, 
"  he  speaks  truth.  Nebuchadnezzar  spoiled  the  nations.  He 
laid  waste  the  cities  of  the  West,  even  unto  the  sea.  Here, 
slave,  Jew,  take  the  harp,  and  make  us  sport.  Sing  us  one  of 
the  songs  of  Zion." 

The  captive  cast  himself  down  before  his  oppressor,  and 
meekly  answered ;  "  Great  King,  how  can  we  be  mirthful,  far 


I 


i 

n 


lo8 


Tl[i:    LAST   REVEL    OP    BELSHAZZAR. 


w 


nwny  from  (ho  scpiilcliies  of  our  Fjitliors?  And  how  can  we 
sing-  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange  land?" 

"What!"  cried  the  infuriated  tyrant,  "  wilt  thou  not  obey ! 
Barest  thou  refuse,  when  Belshazzar  coiiunands  !  Guards,  bear 
him  to  the  prison.  When  wo  want  for  anmsenient,  we  will 
see  him  lorn  liml)  from  limb  l»y  the  [)anther  of  the  mounlain. 
Slaves,  bring  hither  the  vessels  of  silver  and  gold,  which  the 
Land  of  the  great  Nel)r.chadne'/;'/ar  bore  from  the  altar  of  the 
Jewish  god,  and  placed  among  the  oiTerinj^s  to  Bel,  the 
Renowned." 

As  the  soldiers  rudely  laid  hold  upon  the  captive,  and  were 
dragging  him  away,  he  spoke  in  tones  low,  but  full  of  energy, 
"  0  daughter  of  Babylon,  who  art  to  be  destroyed  ;  happy  shall 
he  be,  that  rewardeth  thee,  as  thou  hast  served  us ! " 

In  a  fc!W  moments,  the  vessels  which  had  been  solemnly  dedi- 
cated to  the  service  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  were  brought  into  the 
banqueting  hall.  Slaves  fill  them  with  the  red  wine  of  Chal- 
dea,  and  place  them  before  the  band  of  revelers.  The  king 
arose,  holding  a  sacred  cup  in  his  hand,  and  looked  around  upon 
the  sculptured  gods,  whose  varied  forms  were  on  every  side. 
"  Hail  to  thee.  Mighty  Belus,  son  of  power.  Hail  to  thee, 
Tartak,  who  rulest  the  stars.  Hail,  Ashtaroth,  who  lavest  thy 
beauteous  form  in  the  silver  stream  of  Euphrates.  Hail,  ye 
gods  of  Chaldee ;  of  the  empire  that  hath  no  end.  Ye  are 
mightier  than  the  god  of  Judah,  and  to  you  we  now  devote  the 
spoils  of  his  fallen  temple,  and  deserted  shrine.  Thus  we  defy 
his  vengeance." 

Belshazzar,  Avith  the  unsteady  hand  of  intoxication,  raised  the 
cup  to  his  mouth ;  but  as  it  touched  his  lips,  a  death-like  pallor 
spread  suddenly  over  his  countcnaace ;  the  cup  fell  from  his 
grasp,  and  the  wine  flowed  unheeded  over  the  purple  robes  of 
royalty.     He  sunk  powerless  upon  his  seat,  with  his  wide  staring 


Tlir.    L\ST    KF.VKL    OF    HKLSHAZZAR. 


I.'O 


eyes  tivcil  ii[)()ii  llic  opposiU'  wiill  of  the  haiKiiictin';'  upartincnt. 
Tlit'ic,  a  shadowy  hand  is  socu  writing  words  of  mystery.  And 
now  llie  shailowy  hand,  holding  the  pen,  liuh's  and  is  gone ; 
hut  there,  with  the  hhize  of  many  himps  falhng  hright  upon 
them,  are  the  characters  which  it  trjiced, — Mlne,  mkne,  tekkl, 
UPHARSiN.  Mysterious  words,  "  J\'umcration,  Weighing,  Divi- 
s/on."  Each  is  familiar  to  the  car  of  king  and  courtier.  Kacli 
is  heard  in  the  council  cliamber,  at  tiio  feast,  and  even  in 
the  sports  of  children.  The  ordinary  acceptation  every  hody 
knows ;  l)ut  what  mean  they  here,  traced,  in  letters  of  fire,  hy 
no  mortal  hand  ?  It  is  the  liat  of  Deity,  the  decree  of  Omnipo- 
tence ;  and  what  does  it  speak  ?  Do  they  foreshadow  good,  or 
ill?  And  (o  whoin  are  they  the  outheamings  of  destiny,  the 
Persian  or  the  Chaldean,  the  mighty  city  or  the  mighty  army 
around  its  walls? 

The  guilty  sold  of  the  wine-loving  Belsha/zar  assured  hiin 
that  the  writing  could  bode  no  good  to  him,  or  his  kingdom. 
Perchance  he  calls  to  mind  a  scene  which  once  transpired  in  the 
plain  of  Dura.  He  seems  to  behold  the  colossal  image,  and  tho 
nniltitudes  prostrating  themselves  before  it,  at  the  sound  of  the 
sackbut  and  dulciinei  He  remembers  the  fiiithfulness  of  the 
three  Hebrews ;  the  fiery  furnace  into  which  they  were  cast,  in 
whose  intense  llamcs  thcj'^  walked  imhurt,  while  one  stood  with 
them  there  in  God-like  form  and  glorious  apparel.  He  remem- 
bers the  royal  decree  which  sped  through  the  provinces,  com- 
manding the  nations  which  owned  the  power  of  the  great  king, 
no  more  to  speak  against  the  God  of  Judah,  lest  the  blas- 
phemers be  slain,  and  their  dwellings  be  made  heaps.  Well 
might  the  monarch  be  overwhelmed  with  terror.  He  had  in- 
sulted a  God,  before  whom  the  great  conqueror  had  bowed  with 
reverence.  He  had  wantonly  polluted  the  sacred  vessels  of 
Zion,  and  thus  defied  the  God  of  Israel.     Thy  royal  druniviii  J 


J 


IGO 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  1?  ELS  II AZZ  A  R. 


was  now  sobered  by  his  alarm ;  and  a  deep  dread  of  he  knew 
not  what,  filled  his  soul.  "  His  countenance  was  changed,  and 
his  thoughts  troubled  him,  so  that  the  joints  of  his  loins  were 
loosed,  and  his  knees  smote  one  against  another."  He  cried 
aloud  for  the  si  ?thsayers  and  the  Mngi,  to  deripluT  the  words 
and  interpret  their  hidden  meaning-.  The  venerable  priests, 
witli  snowy  beards,  and  flowing  vestments,  are  sununoned  in 
hot  haste.  Silence,  as  of  the  dead,  broods  over  the  awe  stricken 
assembly,  as  they  enter  the  place  of  the  banquet.  They  ad- 
vance, and  gaze  long-  and  earnestly  upon  the  fearful  characters. 
But  their  boasted  skill  in  supernatural  things  fails  them  utterly, 
and  they  sttmd  confounded  and  silent.  The  king's  terror  grows 
with  each  moment's  delay.  He  connuanded  a  robe  of  the 
fauied  purple,  and  a  chain  of  gold,  to  be  brought  before  him ; 
find  he  seeks  to  cheer  the  astrologers  by  declaring  that  he  who 
should  solve  the  mystic  vision,  should  be  invested  with  ihese 
insignia,  and  l)c  made,  on  the  spot,  the  tliird  ruler  in  the  king- 
dom. But  the  abashed  magicians  shrink  from  the  task  and  own 
themselves  vanquished.  Then  were  the  fears  of  the  prince  of 
Bel  confirmed  ;  and  his  trembling"  lords  stood  in  dumb  con- 
sternation, and  in  vain  looked  incpiiringly  into  each  other's  pale 
countenances. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  the  Queen-moth- 
er, to  whom  a  slave  had  fled  with  tidings  of  what  had  occurred 
in  the  Hall  of  Banquets.  She  approached  her  royal  son,  and 
addressed  him  thus  : — 

"  O,  king,  live  forever.  Let  not  thy  t!u)ughts  troul)le  thee  ; 
nor  let  thy  countenance  be  changed.  There  is  a  man  in  thy 
kingdom,  in  whom  is  the  spirit  of  the  holy  gods ;  and  in  the 
days  of  thy  father,  lig^ht,  and  understanding-,  and  wisdom,  like 
the  wisdom  of  the  gods,  were  tound  in  him.  Him  the  king 
Nebuchadnezzar,    thy  fjitiier,   uuide   master  of  the   magicians. 


THE    LAST    REVEL    OF    I3ELSHAZZAR. 


161 


astrologers,  Chaldeans  and   soothsayers.     Now  let   Daniel  he 
called,  and  he  will  show  the  interpretation." 

The  king  gave  command,  and  the  ofllcers  of  the  Palace  went 
in  haste  to  summon  the  wonderful  man.  As  the  aged  prophet 
of  the  Most  High  was  led  into  the  royal  presence,  every  eye 
was  fixed  upon  him.  Nearly  seventy  years  had  passed  since  he 
first  stood  before  the  throne  of  Nebuchadnezzar.  Those  seventy 
winters  had  left  their  snows  upon  his  Hov/ing  beard,  but  had  not 
bowed  down  his  venerable  form,  nor  dimmed  the  fire;  of  his 
searching  eye. 

As  he  drew  near,  the  king  eagerly  addressed  him  : — "  Art 
thou  that  Daniel  which  art  of  the  children  of  the  captivity  of 
Judah  ?  I  have  heard  of  thee,  that  the  spirit  of  the  gods  is  in 
thee.  Thou  canst  make  interpretations,  and  dissolve  doubts. 
Now,  if  thou  canst  read  the  writing,  and  make  known  to  me 
the  interpretation  thereof,  thou  shalt  be  clothed  with  scarlet, 
and  have  a  chain  of  gold  about  thy  neck,  and  shall  be  the  third 
ruler  in  the  kingdom." 

The  prophet,  unawed  by  the  scene  around  him,  looked 
calmly  upon  the  words  still  blazing  upon  the  wall,  and  then 
turned  toward  the  throne  and  replied  : — 

"  Let  thy  gifts  be  to  thyself,  and  give  thy  rewards  to  another : 
yet  I  will  read  the  writing  unto  the  king,  and  make  know" 
imto  him  the  interpretiition.  0  thou  king,  the  Most  High  God 
gave  Nebuchadnezzar  thy  father,  a  kingdom,  and  majesty,  and 
glory,  and  honor.  All  people,  nations,  and  languages,  trembled 
before  him.  But  when  his  heart  was  lifted  up  with  pride,  he 
was  made  to  come  down  from  his  throne,  and  they  took  his 
glory  from  him.  But  thou,  his  son,  0  Belshazzar,  hast  not 
humbled  thy  heart,  though  thou  knewest  all  this.  Thou  hast 
lifted  up  thyself  against  the  God  of  heaven.  They  have 
brought  the  vessels  of  lp"i  house  before      :v;  and  thou  and  thy 

u 


!     n 


Vo-2 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


^i 


lords,  thy  wives  and  thy  concubines,  have  drunk  wine  in  thein. 
And  thou  hast  praised  the  gods  of  silver  and  gold,  of  brass,  iron, 
wood  and  stone,  which  see  not,  nor  hear,  nor  know.  And  the 
God  in  whose  liand  thy  breath  is,  hast  thou  not  glorified.  Then 
was  the  part  of  the  hand  sent  from  Him,  and  this  writing  was 
written.  And  this  is  the  writing  that  was  written  : — Enumera- 
tion ;  Enumeration  ;  Weighing  ;  Division.  And  this  is  the 
interpreUifion,  Enumeration  ;  God  hath  numbered  thy  king- 
dom and  finished  it.  Weighing ;  thou  art  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ances, and  art  found  wanting.  Division ;  thy  kingdom  is  divi- 
ded and  given  to  the  Medes  and  Persians." 

The  prophet  ceased ;  he  had  fulfilled  his  mission.  The 
prince,  whose  doom  had  tiius  been  pronounced,  commanded, 
witli  a  trembling  voice,  the  rewards  to  be  given.  The  attend- 
ants inv:est  the  passive  Daniel  with  the  robe  of  royalty,  and 
place  the  golden  badge  of  olfice  about  his  neck ;  and  a  herald 
proclaimed  him  the  third  in  authority  in  the  empire  of  the  Chal- 
dees.  No  smile  of  proud  joy  lights  up  the  countenance  of 
Daniel,  as  the  insignia  of  power  are  placed  upon  him.  Unre- 
sistingly, and  as  one  whose  deep  thoughts  are  elsewhere,  he 
sufl!ers  them  to  be  put  on,  and  then  turns,  and  with  a  meek  stt^», 
leaves  the  banquet  hall. 

But  the  music  is  silent ;  the  reveling  has  ceased,  and  cannot 
be  resumed.  The  light  of  the  perfumed  lamps  falls  every 
where  upon  anxious  and  awed  faces.  But  the  more  reckless 
among  the  lords  fix  their  eyes  upon  the  fearful  characters,  they 
mark  their  fading  brightness ;  and  a  faint  gleam  of  hope  and 
returning  confidence  comes  back  K)  their  hearts.  Soon  the  fiery 
tokens  are  gone.  Tlie  lords  begin  to  recover  from  their  fears. 
They  order  the  slaves  to  pour  out  more  wine,  and  they  call 
upon  the  dancing  women,  and  the  players  upon  the  cornet  and 
the  psaltery  to  go  on.     But  the  daughters  of  music  look  upon 


THE    LAST    REVEL   OF    BELSHAZZAR 


lf!H 


(lie  lullen  countenance  of  the  king  and  remain  motionless  and 
silent.  Suddenly  a  new  sound  from  without  is  heard.  It  is  not 
the  noise  of  revelry,  nor  the  notes  of  mirth.  Nearer  and  nearer 
it  comes,  rolling  up  the  broad  avenue,  till  at  last  it  breaks  upon 
the  ear  in  sounds  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  is  tlie  roar  of  battle. 
The  clash  of  arms  mingles  with  the  fierce  shouts  of  the  combat- 
ants. The  groans  of  the  dying,  and  the  cries  of  the  wounded, 
as  they  roll  upon  the  ground  in  their  agony  are  heard.  The 
trampling  of  rapid  feet,  and  the  wild  shrieks  of  the  unarmed 
nmltitude,  flying  from  the  foe  swell  the  loud  tumult.  Soon  the 
ring  of  armor,  and  the  rushing  tread  of  armed  men,  are  heard 
in  the  court.  The  guard  stationed  there,  incapable  of  resistance 
are  butchered  without  mercy ;  and  in  another  moment,  the  very 
gates  of  the  palace  trembled  beneath  the  heavy  blows  of  the 
battle-axe.  And  now  they  are  burst  through,  and  a  crowd  of 
soldiers,  covered  with  blood,  and  mad  with  the  terrible  frenzy 
of  battle,  pour  into  the  festive  hall.  In  the  last  energy  of  de- 
spair, Belshazzar  drew  his  sword,  and  a  few  of  his  thousand 
lords  rallied  aro'.md  their  sovereign.  But  resistance  was  vain. 
His  friends  are  cut  down  by  his  side,  and  as  the  ill-fated  mon- 
arch stood  among  the  writhing  wounded  and  the  gory  slain,  and 
essayed  to  defend  himself,  his  sword  was  dashed  from  his  hand, 
and  the  traitorous  scimetar  of  Gobrias,  once  his  ftiend,  pierced 
his  breast.  He  sunk  down  upon  the  bodies  of  the  fallen,  and 
his  blood  poured  over  the  marble  pavement,  mingled  with  the 
red  wine  which  had  brought  sin  and  death  upon  him. 


I 


"  Then  slumbered  not 
Thy  vengeance,  Holy  one.     At  that  decree, 
Mem  caire,  and  went,  and  came  ;  but  where  was  he, 
Chaldea's  haughty  Monarch  ?     He  was  gone 
Where  earthly  princes  are  but  earthly  dust ; 
And  Babylon  was  fallen." 


1G4 


THE  LAST  REVEL  OF  BELSHAZZAR. 


A  few  years  more,  and  the  "  Golden  City "  had  become  a 
mass  of  ruins.  And  now  the  woe  denounced  by  the  Prophet, 
when  Babylon  was  in  the  height  of  its  glory,  is  literally  fulfilled. 
"  It  shall  never  be  inhabited ;  neither  shall  the  Arabian  pitch 
tent  there ;  neither  shall  the  shepherds  make  their  fold  there. 
But  wild  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  lie  there ;  and  their  houses 
shall  be  full  of  doleful  creatures ;  and  owls  shall  dwell  there, 
and  satyrs  shall  dance  there.  I  will  also  make  it  a  possession 
for  the  bittern,  and  pools  of  water ;  and  I  will  sweep  it  with 
the  besom  of  destruction,  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts." 


ii 


DR.  FREDERICK  A.  FICKARDT,  M.  W.  S. 

Frederick  A.  Fickardt,  is  a  native  of  Lancaster  County, 
Pennsylvania.  His  family  is  German  from  a  stock  originally 
French.  His  father  was  a  medical  graduate  of  one  of  the  Ger- 
man universities,  and  emigrated  early  in  life  to  this  country. 
His  mother  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  a  Southern  clergyman 
of  talent  and  repute.  At  a  proper  age  tlie  sul)ject  of  our  skv^tch 
entered  upon  the  study  of  Medicine,  and  in  duo  tiitif;  gnidralcd 
at  the  Medical  University  of  Pennsylvania.  i\u  arduoxis  pur- 
suit of  his  profession  in  the  flourishing  town  of  Easton,  of  tliat 
state,  proved  eventually  an  overmatch  for  liis  consiitutiori,  and 
induced  him  to  exchange  that  locality  for  the  cit^  -'''  PhiladeJj)!iia, 
where  he  now  resides.  From  his  youth,  Dr.  Fickardt  h.,s  been 
a  firm  and  consistent  advocate  of  Teni'"rance.  In  182^,  he 
actively  engaged  in  the  formation  ;'  support  of  the  fir''* 
Temperance  Society  in  Northern  Pn  ylvauia,  of  whicli  Ijm 
subsequently  became  an  elFicierit  Presnlcnt.  Since  then  he  hns 
been  associated  with  the  reform  in  all  its  phases.  On  his  arriv;d 
at  Philadelphia  in  1845,  he  was  ele(  Grand  Worthy  Patriarch 
of  the  Grand  Division  of  "  Sons  df  Temperance,"  of  Penu. 
In  184G,  at  the  third  annual  session  of  the  National  Division,  he 
was  elected  Most  Worthy  Scribe  of  that  body;  and  in  184S,  at 
the  fifth  annual  session,  was  re-elected  to  the  same  honorable 
and  responsible  position. 


I 


M 


,    '<    !,    •.     ! 


''■:'n<  .; 


4''  il^-f-. 


II 


1 

if 

i  h ' 

;  If 

THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE 

OF    NORTH  AMERICA, 
AS  A  SCHOOL  FOR  POPULAR  DEBATE  AND  ELOQUENCE. 

BY    FREDERICK    A.    FICKARDT,    M.    W.    S. 
OF   THE    NATIONAL    '  'VISION,   SONS   OF   TEMPERANCE   OF    N.   A. 

In  attempting  a  tl.eme  so  singular  as  that  indicated  by  the 
tjtle  of  this  essay,  I  can  have  but  Httle  reason  to  be  influenced 
by  any  sense  of  personal  abihty ;  but  am  induced  to  the  work 
by  the  strong  tendencies  of  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temperance, 
and  the  wonderful  theatre  for  individual  improvement  in  popular 
debate  and  eloquence  which  its  numerous  Subordinate,  Grand, 
and  National  Divisions  present. 

I  am  free  to  declare  the  facts  of  this  proposition  stand  out 
so  definitely  among  the  many  indirect  benefits  of  the  Order, 
apart  from  its  great  primary  principles,  as  to  make  them  of  much 
importance,  and  fairly  to  entitle  them  not  only  to  the  attentive 
consideration  of  every  Son  of  Temperance,  but  of  all  other 
ingenuous  young  minds. 

In  a  republic  like  ours,  where  all  matters  of  a  moral,  civil, 
K'ligicns  or  social  nature  are  determined  by  verbal  expression. 


'W^ 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


lul 


for  the  most  part  oral ;  the  true  vahie  of  right  eloquence, 
slrcngthened  by  a  familiar  use  of  the  rules  of  debate,  cannot  be 
easily,  over  calculated.  In  view  of  these  facts,  after  a  not  in- 
considerable experience  in  the  Order,  I  cannot  forbear  express- 
ing my  own  regrets  that  I  had  not,  in  my  youth,  similar  reliable 
opportunities  of  discipline  and  practice. 

It  is  therefore  a  conviction  of  my  own  loss,  as  well  as  the 
prominent  character  of  the  Order  as  a  gymnasium  of  the  facul- 
ties preparatory  to  the  great  arena  of  the  life  and  strife  of  intel- 
lect in  the  world,  that  impels  me  to  earnestly  impress  on  Sons 
of  Temperance,  and  the  young  men  of  the  country  generally, 
the  exceeding  worth  of  the  Order  as  an  educational  organization. 

I  speak  it  soberly,  and  not  without  serious  reflection,  when  I 
slate  that  in  my  judgiuent,  no  schools,  or  colleges;  no  societies 
for  debate,  however  rigid,  nor  wy  other  association,  will  equally 
advance  so  many  young  men  to  the  attainment  of  power  in 
debate,  or  a  manly  and  straight  forward  eloquence. 

This,  to  the  "  uninitiated,"  may  sound  a  sweeping  and  mag- 
niloquent assertion.  But  if  it  were  possible  to  submit  a  moiety 
of  the  facts  to  my  readers,  their  candor  would  fully  bear  jne  out 
in  my  firm  praise.  To  those  who  are  memliers  of  the  Order,  I 
may  at  once  appeal  for  support  of  my  strongest  expressions. 
Nor  will  I  fear  for  tiie  support  of  any,  when  we  consider  the 
original  principles  and  active  character  of  the  Order ;  its  various 
rt^gulations,  laws,  and  discipline ;  its  many  legal  enactments  and 
its  equnlly  frequent  Judicial  decisions ;  its  excellent  select  and 
approved  Rules  of  Parliamentary  order  and  debate  ;  the  varie- 
ties of  position  in  which  Sons  of  Temperance  are  continually 
placed  as  members,  and  subordinate  and  presiding  officers ;  its 
many  moving  incidents,  and  its  frequent  occasions  of  persuasive, 
spirited,  explanatory  and  judicial  discussions,  habitually  controll- 
ed by  constitutional  law  and  the  great  ropublican  rule  ''of  the 


m 


1G8 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMTERANCE. 


majority."  This  support  moreover  I  fully  cliolleiigo  when  I 
state  the  Aict  that  more  than  Jive  thousand  Divisions  of  the  Order 
meet  regularly  every  week,  for  the  transaction  of  business,  and 
the  advancement  of  the  general  cause.  Do  any  still  doubt? 
Then  I  state  that  these  Divisions  embrace  a  membership  of  over 
a  quarter  of  a  million  of  intelligent  and  sober  men. 

Beside  these  there  are  thirty-five  Grand  Divisions  of  States, 
Territories  or  Provinces,  holding  important  quarterly  and  annual 
sessions,  and  a  National  Division,  holding  yearly  Congresses  of 
Representatives  from  the  grand  divisions,  in  all  of  which  the 
happiest  opportunities  are  presented  either  for  close  debate,  or 
a  full  and  generous  expression  of  sentiments.  In  addition  to 
all  the  "  out  of  doors  "  speaking  afforded  by  the  Order  is  im- 
mense as  it  is  free.  Now,  will  any  one  look  at  this  vast  and 
rapidly  extending  moral  intellectual  school  of  ours  and  hesitate 
to  pronounce  it  magnificently  grand  1 

But  to  lead  you  still  f-^rther  into  the  mysteries  of  this  Peojjle's 
College,  I  proceed  to  state  that  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Tenqier- 
ance  is  a  charmed  Brotherhood,  erected  in  protection  and  advo- 
cacy of  that  great  virtue,  Temperance,  and  based  socially  on 
"  Love,  Purity,  and  Fidelity,"  its  generous  motto. 

Its  s])irit  in  general  matters  is  uncompromisingly  repuhUcan. 
Before  it,  ages  and  outward  conditions  are  fraternised  and  equal. 
Within  it,  wealth  has  no  influence,  station  no  prestige,  nor  pro- 
fession any  privilege.  Pretensions  sink  quiet  at  the  entrance  of 
its  rooms,  and  all  with  them  are  content  under  the  salutary  oper- 
ation of  an  honoraljlc  and  imdeviating  level. 

In  this,  the  Order  is  truly  classic  and  noble,  and  fitly  repre- 
sents the  dignity  of  human  nature.  Each  individual  is  assured 
of  the  just  respect  of  his  fellows,  and  all  have  a  desirable  care. 
To  the  young  and  modest  aspirant  for  self-cultivation,  the  best, 
because  the  most  fruitful  education  of  any,  this  excellent  assu- 


THE    ORDER    OF    SONS    OF    TEMPERANCE. 


1G9 


ranee  is  matter  of  the  first  moment.  Its  effect  is  to  give  to  all 
such,  courage  to  be  themselves.  In  tliis  I  mean  more  than  the 
word  expresses,  I  mean  to  be  natural.  Before  a  band  of  broth- 
ers who  look  indulgently  and  encouragingly  on  every  true  efibrt, 
young  speakers  do  not  long  hesitate  to  take  the  floor  in  support 
or  defence  of  the  positions  they  may  assume.  A  few  trials,  and 
the  new  debater,  at  first  startled  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice, 
gains  his  speaking  legs,  and  feels  that  he  has  arms  and  a  body, 
as  well  as  a  head.  The  luicertainty  of  sight,  the  chaos  of  brain, 
the  flutterings  of  his  heart,  and  the  debilitating  doubt  of  capacity 
are  passed  away,  and  the  debutant  has  learned  a  useful  and 
becoming  mastery  over  the  elementary  incidents  of  debate  and 
oration. 

Thus  in  a  time,  often  surprisingly  short,  young  speakers  ob- 
tain a  fooling  on  the  rungs  of  the  ladder  that  leads  to  the  higher 
exertions  jmd  rewards,  of  skilful  del)ate  and  eloquence. 

They  soon  moreover  gain  collectedness,  promptness,  and  that 
enviable  faculty  of  the  right  debater  and  orator,  that  "  conditio 
sine  qua  non,"  with  the  American  people,  the  power  of  "  think- 
ing whilst  upon  their  feet,"  and  speaking  their  thoughts  firmly 
whilst  looking  in  the  eyes  of  their  audience. 

Accordingly,  our  yoimg  men  reap  great  advantages,  and  go 
out  into  the  general  field  prepared  to  do  themselves,  and  what- 
ever cause  they  may  espouse,  full  and  honorable  justice.  Under 
the  guidance  of  their  principles  they  become  a  public  benefit, 
and  at  the  same  time  are  saved  by  their  connection  with  the 
Order,  from  the  destroying  devil  of  our  country.  Intemperance. 

It  is  indeed  gratifying  to  observe  this  elevating  influence  so 
widely  and  universally  diffused.  It  is  not  that  the  Order  of  Sons 
of  Temperance  is  a  school  for  the  few — but  that  it  exalts  the 
many.,  that  makes  it  admirable.  It  is  not  that  the  Order,  under 
the  concurrence  of  favorable  circumstances,  developes  then  anr^. 


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170 


THK    OUDHR    OF    SONS    OF    TEMPERANCE. 


!l  I 


there,  sonu'  peculiarly  bright  and  shining  light  in  the  divine  artj 
but  that  it  ellecfs  beneficially,  the  general  membership. 

I  hold,  and  in  the  matter  I  nvison  as  a  lover  of  humanity  and 
my  country,  that  out  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  Sons  of  Tem- 
perance thus  self-taught,  learning  to  marshal  their  opinions  un- 
der firm  discipline,  and  extemporaneously,  boldly  and  effectively 
to  pronounce  them,  the  cause  of  right,  of  truth  and  human  hap- 
piness, will  derive  greatly  more  service,  than  from  the  few  bril- 
liant rhetorical  Ciceros,  Burkes  and  Sheridans  whom  the  hot  bed 
systems  of  the  schools  of  elocution  and  colleges  of  the  country, 
may  force  into  artificial  and  ephemeral  existence. 

I  do  not  in  these  remarks  seek  for  a  moment  to  depreciate 
unduly  the  excellent  effects  of  a  true  literary  education  in  many 
things  ;  or  even  to  undervalue  it  in  the  matter  before  us.  But 
the  schools  in  general,  extinguish  the  nascent  germs  of  elo- 
quence in  their  pupils,  by  addressing  their  efforts  to  unnatural 
standards,  and  throwing  their  powers  upon  systems.  Freedom, 
soul  and  nature,  the  great  elements  of  moving  eloquence  are 
overlooked  in  disproportionate  care  for  a  set  form  of  graces  of 
composition  and  manner ;  and  the  alumnus,  whose  soul-like 
capacity,  perhaps  entered  college  a  young  Sampson,  or  comes 
shorn  and  powerless  from  the  hands  of  the  Delilah  his  alma  mater. 

Therefore  I  repeat,  that  in  the  great  matter  of  real  eloquence 
which  persuades  and  moves  men's  minds  to  conviction  and  ac- 
tion ;  that  honestest,  bravest  eloquence  which  "  Feels  its  sub- 
ject thoroughly  and  speaks  without  fear,"  the  Order  of  Sons  of 
Temperance  is  incomparably  more  prolijic  than  all  the  colleges 
in  the  country  combined. 

This  self-education  of  citizens,  all  educated  and  good  men 
will  admit,  is  beyond  price ;  and  thus  the  Order  at  once  appears 
what  it  really  is,  in  this  respect  as  well  as  others,  a  proud  means 
of  good,  and  a  blessing  to  the  country. 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


171 


To  tlic  individual  Son  of  Tcinprrnnce  the  intellectual  oppor- 
tunities of  the  Order  thus  descrihed,  readily  impart  a  power 
applicable  to  his  usefulness,  interests  and  personal  and  social 
good,  in  a  variety  of  ways. 

To  popularity  indeed,  elo([uence  is  the  sure  key,  and  the 
man  whose  right  hand  holds  it,  commands  to  himself  the  ave- 
nues to  influence  and  puhlic  respect.  Let  me  assure  the  young, 
that  all  men  look  with  respect  and  favor  on  him  who  can  dannt- 
lessly  face  the  battery  of  a  thousand  pairs  of  eyes,  and  grace- 
fully, firmly  and  effectually  deliver  his  sentiments  before  them. 
Such  a  man  is  always,  or  speedily  becomes,  a  man  of  mark  with 
the  people  of  the  United  States. 

But  to  continue.  The  standard  moral  principles  of  the  Order, 
under  whose  regulating  influences  this  faculty  is  acquired,  throw 
additional  lustre  on  forensic  debate,  and  the  higher  quality  of  a 
generous  public  eloquence.  Temperance,  Integrity,  Virtue, 
Honor,  Charity,  Brotherhood  and  Benevolence  are  our  control- 
ling influences. 

These  double  the  value  of  those  divine  attainments  to  the 
country,  for  without  them,  eloquence  and  ratiocinative  skill 
become  mere  matters  of  pence — at  times  a  two-edged  sword  at 
the  back  and  service  of  the  baser  passions,  and  too  often  are  to 
be  foimd  in  the  market,  a  contemptible,  when  not  a  dangerous 
thing  of  traffic. 

This  condition  of  things  additionally  entitles  the  body  of  Sons 
of  Temperance  to  the  favorable  consideration  and  support  of 
good  citizens. 

But  some  now  say,  tell  us  more  particularly  the  nature  of  that . 
oratory  of  the  Order  in  whose  behalf  you  would  impress   us. 
This  will  be  difficult  from  the  nature  of  the  case.     I  shall  hard- 
ly be  able  to  show  it,  and  show  it  justice-     I  could  wish  rather 
that  all  doul)ters  could  pass  with  me  through  the  Divisions  and 


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THK  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


Grand  Divisions  of  tlie  Order  and  see  for  themselves.  I  have 
often  personally  been  agreeably  surpiised  at  results  as  I  have 
portrayed  tlitni.  The  more  than  ordinary  eloquence  which 
frecjuenlly  lights  up  the  debates  of  the  Order  would  please  the 
plainest,  animate  the  most  indilTerent  and  convince  the  mos» 
skeptical.  Yet  as  in  duty  bound  to  my  readers,  I  will  endeavor, 
as  well  as  I  can,  to  hedge,  in  words,  and  frame  to  the  sight,  a 
thing  which  is  spirit  and  sensation. 

As  an  amateur  observer  both  in  and  out  of  the  Order,  to  a 
considerable  extent,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  the  oratory 
of  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temperance  of  that  sort  which  is  of 
fhp  highest  uti/ify  ;  and  that  is,  perhaps,  the  fullest  praise  that 
can  be  bestowed  upon  any. 

The  garnished  trickery  of  the  schools  of  elocution  will  not 
stand  the  test  of  the  genuine  tones  and  action  of  this  natural, 
popular  school.  In  style  the  oratory  of  the  Order  is  plain, 
direct  and  practical ;  in  substance  solid  ;  in  tone  earnest,  m;mly 
and  grave ;  in  maimer  without  pretense,  and  in  action  natural 
and  free. 

It  is  the  considerate  utterance  of  thinking,  rather  Mian  the 
passionate  declamation  of  emotional  assemblies.  It  deals  but 
little  in  figures  and  metaphor;  p(>rhaps  too  little ;  but  its  admi- 
rable lil)erty,  its  cogency,  warmth  and  general  vivacity,  totally 
prevent  dryness.  In  truth  it  is  almost  impossible  that  the  inter- 
nal oratory  of  the  Order  should  be  anything  but  what  I  have 
described  it.  Immediate  contact,  the  eye  set  on  eye,  and  the 
present  interest  of  most  discussions,  prevent  men  however 
prone,  if  they  have  moderate  sensibilities,  from  becoming  inde- 
fmite  or  desultory.  This  closeness  of  encounter  keeps  men  as 
close  to  the  point.  A  few  "  ancients,"  whose  style  was  formed 
under  the  disadvantages  of  "  outside "  fashionable  training, 
sometimes  tal/c  without  seeing  or  thinking  ;  hut  no  young  Son 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


173 


of  Tenipcrancr,  who  1ms  unck'igone  a  luodcrute  noviciate,  ever 
proses.  It  is  then  a  true,  sound  oratory  of  th(5  Rinison,  warm- 
ed, rather  than  niade  hrilhant,  by  energetic  feeliny  and  a  frank, 
firm  and  generous  will.  It  is  entirely  honest.  It  has  no  fal- 
lacy of  art — nor  any  iloiuish  of  old  time  preparation,  but  is 
prompt,  extempore  and  direct. 

The  judgment  of  the  Order  is,  as  a  general  rule,  adjusted  to 
this  standard ;  and  although  no  enemy  to  brilliant  modes  of 
speaking  when  the  gems  are  true  and  the  light  sparkles  natu- 
rally, or  to  the  most  enthusiastic  style  even,  when  the  inspira- 
tion is  not  second-hand,  yet  it  undeniably  holds  the  incidents  of 
mere  meteoric  oratory  at  a  palpable  discount.  In  short,  manli- 
ness, sincerity,  earnestness,  good  sense  and  right  intentions  are 
the  essentials  of  the  oratory  of  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Terajx^r- 
ance ; — an  oratory  whose  popular  origin  and  strong  elfect,  cou- 
pled with  the  numerous  and  wide-spread  extension  of  the  Order, 
will  before  many  years,  mark  it  the  "^a^/a*on"  of  the  country 
beyond  appeals. 

Principles,  as  may  already  have  been  inferred,  are  of  great 
consideration  with  the  Order.  Integrity  of  character  has  more 
influence  before  its  bar  than  talent.  An  individual  known  to  be 
deficient  in  that  chief  particular,  may  as  well  at  once  resign  all 
pretension  to  esteem.  "Thou  art  weighed"  is  the  dark  hand- 
writing on  the  wall  of  the  Division  room,  and  the  decree  is 
inexorable.  A  plain  hard  sense  speech  from  a  man  of  right 
character,  is  listened  to  with  more  interest  and  sympathy  than  a 
far  more  glittering  oratory  unsupported  by  integrity. 

The  intellectual  taste  of  the  Order  is  as  severe  as  its  republic- 
anism and  its  principles.  In  the  older  Divisions  and  Grand  Divi- 
sions no  "  iuunbug"  can  flutter  its  wings  twice.  I  nuist  appeal 
to  members  of  the  Order  for  the  amusing  correctness  of  this 
remark.     It  matters  not  anything  who  the  man  may  be,  if  he 


I 

'I 


174 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE 


displays  a  pomp  Ijcyoml  the  propriety  of  nature,  there  is  an 
iiulescrihable  soiiictliing  in  the  grave  and  sih'nt  look  of  the 
assemblages  wiiich  leaves  him  no  room  to  doul)t  his  position. 
An  old  estahlished  Grand  Division  of  the  Order  of  Sons  of 
Temperance  will  "  take  the  measure  of  a  man  "  more  quickly, 
and  infallibly,  than  any  assembly,  short  of  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States,  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  scan ;  and  if  some 
Grand  Divisions  that  I  know  of,  had  certain  unruly  members  of 
the  Senate  in  charge,  they  would  mend  their  manners  speedily. 
The  reason  for  this  peculiarity  may  be  found  in  the  earnest  and 
practical  character  of  the  membership,  and  a  firm  high  toned 
dignity  imparted  by  the  cause  itself. 

The  Order  is  a  reality ;  aflectation  dies  before  it.  There  is 
not,  of  the  many  eminent  speakers  known  to  myself,  one  among 
the  whole  number  afflicted  with  the  vice  of  ajfedation;  and  I 
will  venture  to  say,  knowing  my  ground  well,  that,  of  the  thou- 
sands of  passing  good  speakers  Jind  debaters,  the  Order  may  rea- 
sonably claim,  there  is  not  one  who  has  been  a  member  of  the 
Order  for  a  moderate  period,  who  is  stained  with  affectation  in 
manner  or  style. 

Will  professors  of  the  colleges  say  as  much  for  any  other  in- 
stitution of  learning  or  practice?  I  think  not.  My  own  expe- 
rience, and  I  presume  it  is  in  nothing  singular,  is  grecftly  to  the 
contrary. 

The  fields  of  moral  progress  and  human  rights,  the  churches 
and  the  political  organism  of  the  day,  the  halls  of  legislation 
and  our  noble  country  in  all  her  policies  and  institutions,  before 
a  very  few  years  shall  have  passed  away,  will  alike  advanta- 
geously perceive  the  effect  of  the  principles  and  oratory  of  the 
Order. 

And  I  predict,  although  predictions  are  not  argument,  and  are 
not  often   in  good   taste,  yet  for  the   facts  and   as   matter  of 


THF,    ORDER    OF    SONS    OF    TEMPERANCE. 


(O 


ri'coid,  basing  my  claim  to  second  sight  only  on  ohsorvation  and 
comparison  of  cause  and  clFcct,  and  the  competency  of  the 
agents  in  the  matter,  that  in  less  than  ten  years  tlie  Order  of 
Sons  of  Temperance  will  furnish  a  large  and  wholesome  propor- 
tion of  sober,  well  trained,  active  and  eilicient  Representatives 
for  the  State  and  National  Legislatures,  in  some  a  moiety,  and 
in  others  a  working  majority.  This  will  haj)pen  by  virtue 
alone  of  the  causations  noted,  and  without  the  remotest  inten- 
tion of  political  action  on  the  part  of  the  Order. 

From  the  same  intelligent  causes,  the  Order  will  supply  pro- 
minent and  successful  candidates  for  all  other  high  walks  of  use- 
fulness and  honor;  and  the  time  will  naturally  fall  due  sooner 
than  is  generally  apprehended,  when  Judges,  Governors  of 
States  and  Presidents  of  the  United  States  will  many  of  them 
be  Sons  of  Temperance.  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  The  Order 
is  rapidly  absorbing  throughout  the  country  that  active,  bold  and 
reasoning  class  of  young  men  from  whose  ranks,  as  the  rule, 
these  dignitaries  are  drawn,  men  of  the  people,  t/iey  arc  the 
people,  have  conunon  sympathies  with  them,  and  being  educated 
to  j)roper  fitness,  will  of  course  represent  them. 

This  result,  in  the  present  condition  of  our  Legislatures,  State 
and  National,  is  a  thing  "devoutly  to  be  wished  for;"  not  be- 
cause those  men  of  the  future  will  be  Sons  of  Temperance,  but 
because  they  will  be  fit. 

Now,  let  all  remember  that  I  speak  of  these  things  philoso- 
phically and  as  a  man  having  a  heart  for  his  country,  in  "  the 
right  place,"  and  not  as  a  Son  of  Temperance.  Let  none, 
therefore,  in  pious  or  patriotic  honor,  roll  up  their  eyeballs,  and 
throw  up  their  hands,  and  say,  "  I  thought  so ! " — No !  pray 
don't ! 

I  have  already  said  the  Order  has  no  conception  of  political 
action,  I  will   now  state  thai  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temper- 


n 


i 


17G 


TIIF.    OUDRROF    SONS    OF    TEMl'KRAXCF.. 


nnce  is  forhhliUn  by  its  express  fuiuhimciitdl  prinriphs,  Jind  if  it 
were  not,  woiilil  Im*  yet  utterly  precluded  by  the  unirirsality  of 
its  orj^ani/ation,  froui  entering  into  any  complicity  of  political 


action 


The  most  potent  conjuror  of  the  hearts  of  men,  might  as  well 
try  to  whistle  all  the  birds  of  heaven  to  fly  in  one  direction,  ns  to 
attemjit  a  political  flight  with  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temperance. 

That  I  have  so  frankly  spol<(^n  will  be  self-sustaining  proof  to 
all  sensil)le  men  of  th(*  entire  freedom  of  the  Order  from  the 
possibility  of  political  implication  for  improj)er  purposes.  Were 
it  possible  to  convert  this  immense  Temperance  Benevolent 
Institution  into  a  pestilent  j)olitical  party  machine,  I  \Nould  be 
either  honest  v'uough  to  leave  it,  or  shrewd  enough  to  keep  silence. 

Now,  if  I  have  tired  you,  my  patient,  serious,  amiable,  or 
perchance  lovely  reader,  I  am  very  nmch  disposed  to  ask  your 
pardon ;  and  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  state  your  grievance 
and  address,  possibly,  nay,  very  possibly,  I  may  pick  up  my 
surpassing  gold-nii)bcd,  irenium  pointed  pen  and  make  due  apo- 
logy. For  your  time  so  dryly  occupied,  I  owe  you  assurances 
of  much  consideiation  ;  but  I  am  not  yet  quite  done.  The  sul)- 
ject  interests  me  from  my  regard  for  the  Order,  and  from  the 
tangible  character  of  the  facts ;  to  you,  however,  it  cannot  be 
nearly  so  interesting  viewed  through  the  dull  Uiedium  of  imper- 
fect and  general  representation.  I  shall  now — that  is — pre- 
sently conclude.  I  wish  I  could  do  so  by  blowing  a  fresh, 
sweet,  cheerful  bugle  note  over  the  hearts  of  the  great  Order,  to 
make  them  strong  in  the  faith  of  its  vast  and  comprehensive 
future ;  and  then  ngain,  a  trumpet-blast  that  would  stir  it  up  to 
"gird  its  loins,"  like  a  giant  awaked,  and  press  forward  strenu- 
ously to  work  out  its  high  destuiies  to  the  good  of  man. 

I  wish  too,  I  could,  by  some  similar  telegraph  of  sound,  or 
magic  of  spiritual  magnetism,  conuuunicate  with  every  yoimg, 


THE    ORDKR    OF    SONS    OF    TEMPERANCE. 


177 


right  niin(l(>(l  man  in  the  Tniicd  Slates  and  British  Pr ninccs, 
not  in  nicmhciship  with  "  the  OnhT,"  and  slate  to  theui  its 
grandeur  and  iiiii)ortancej  as  the  eniltoihnient  of  the  great  Tem- 
perance Reform,  and  the  vast  importance  to  fhcmselves  individ- 
ually which  it  presi-nts. 

A  sol)er  hfe  and  an  unsurpassed  free  school  of  intcHect  and 
good  morals,  and  an  innuense  Hrot!ierlK)od,  are  the  high  offers 
it  holds  out  to  each  young  man,  with  the  one  hand;  whilst  with 
the  other  it  opens  the  door  to  an  honoral)lc  success  to  wealth,  to 
character  and  usrfultiess. 

Earnestly  I  call  on  my  young  hrothers  in  the  Order,  to  con- 
sider these  things,  and  carefully  to  improve  their  present  advan- 
tages as  a  duty  to  themselves,  to  their  friends  and  families,  their 
country  and  God.  Personal  opportunities  of  right  good  to  our- 
selves, or  others,  and  especially  improvement  to  usefulness 
m  the  worhl,  and  Scriptural  "/rt/c/i/A'"  for  which  we  are  as 
much  responsihle,  as  for  the  personal  talents  or  other  means  for 
the  common  henefif,  over  which  God  has  set  us  Stewards.  The 
great  intellectual  privileges  of  the  Order  should,  therefore,  be 
justly  cultivated  by  all  serious  and  high  minded  young  men. 
Let  them  reflect  that  they  themselves  are  just  placing  their  feet 
on  the  threshold  of  life  ;  and  that  if  on  that  great  stage  they 
desire  to  enact  an  honorabh»  and  becoming  part,  one  that  shall 
move  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men  to  great  and  good  actions, 
and  continue  to  live  deeply  in  their  memories,  they  must  now, 
in  youth,  discipline  themselves,  and  bring  all  their  faculties  into 
a  well  adjusted  self-managment  and  spiritual  mastery. 

A  rigid  determination  to  profit  by  (he  excellence  of  our  or- 
ganization, cannot  fail  to  confer  upon  your  future  the  greatest 
usefulness,  happiness  and  respectability. 

To  those   young  friends,   not   members  of  the  Order,  I  also 

cordially  commend  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temi)er.ince,  for  rea- 

\-2 


178 


THE    ORDER    OF    SONS    OF   TEMPERANCE. 


sons  sliUcd,  and  out  of  n  silicon*  nnd  truly  frii'iully  desire  for 
(heir  niorfil,  iiifellecfiial  and  general  welfare. 

I  heartily  invite  flieni,  in  fhe  iianH"  of  a  (|iiarfer  of  a  inilHon 
of  brothers,  Sons  of  'reni[)eranre,  to  th(>  great  practical  self-od- 
iicatory,  moral,  social  ami  intellectual  School  of  the  Order. 

I  can  frankly,  and  conscientiously  say  to  them,  that  I  have 
long  been  a  Son  of  Temperiince,  and  have  passed  through  its 
organi/alioii,  with  much  satisfaction.  As  a  Son  of  Temiierance, 
although  as  properly  jealous  of  my  freedom  in  thought,  word 
nnd  deed,  as  any  sensible  person  could  be,  I  have  had  no  reason 
to  regret  my  membership  with  the  Order. 

The  Order  of  Sons  of  Tem[)erance,  indeed,  imposes  no  re- 
straint but  that  which  good  sense,  sound  morals,  and  true  reli 
gion  dictate, — total  ahstinence  from  all  crazing  beverages.  The 
pledge  to  do  this  is  the  mere  public  acknowledgment  of  what, 
loithout  the  pledge,  is  still  ecpially  every  man's  duty  ;  a  duty, 
for  the  non-performance  of  which  it  is  to  be  hoi)ed,  the  commu- 
nity before  long,  as  it  is  to  be  feared  that  God,  hereafter,  will 
hold  men  accountal)le. 

The  cause  of  Temperance  is  eminently  the  cause  of  God  and 
humanity ;  and  he,  not  only,  who  opposes  it,  but  he  who  neg- 
lects his  duty  to  it,  does  so  at  his  risk.  In  this  I  am  sure  I  am 
no  bigot.  I  speak  in  no  spirit  of  bigotry,  but  in  a  sense  of  true 
brotherhood  towards  all  mankind;  but  I  reason  as  I  cannot  help, 
on  the  proposition,  that  in  all  our  lives,  our  possible  influences, 
and  our  conduct,  we  are  Godh'  "  stewards^'' 

The  pledge  of  the  Order  has  thus  no  additional  obligation  in 
moral  duty,  but  is  merely  the  addition  of  our  woi'd  of  honor, 
where  our  honor  and  duty  laid  before.  But  unfortunately  the 
habits  of  society,  in  regard  to  Intemperance,  notwithstanding 
the  light  which  has  been,  and  is  daily  shed  on  their  evil  nature, 
are  still  such  that  the  pledge  of  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Temper- 


THE  ORDER  OF  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


i::» 


iinLi',  is  a  ih'siniblc  safeguard  to  every  man.  If  an  iniliviiliuil 
IS  unfortunately  addicted  to  the  dangerous  lial)it  of  "  moderate 
ilrinking,"  the  only  and  guilti/  source  of  all  drunkenness ;  or  is 
still  more  innnediately  involved  in  the  fierce  coils  of  Iul(;mper- 
ance,  the  pledge  of  the  Order,  with  God's  blessing,  will  save 
him  from  his  guilt  or  shame.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  is  noi 
in  such  an  imminent  position,  the  ratification  of  the  pledge  will, 
perhaps,  induce  others  worse  situated,  to  take  refuge  under  it, 
whilst  the  pledge  will  remain  a  strong  wall  of  defence  between 
himself,  his  hopes,  his  honor  and  the  hap[)iness  of  those  he 
loves,  and  an  ever  Uirking  and  fearful  peril. 

Finally  young  countrymen,  I  acknowledge  to  have  personally 
experienced  much  important  mental  discipline,  as  well  as  to 
have  received  many  excjuisite  gratifications  through  my  connec- 
tion with  the  Order.  In  its  pleasant  bonds  of  "  Love,  Purity, 
and  Fidelity "  I  have  found  many  warm-hearteil,  faithful  and 
highly  intelligent  friends  and  brothers,  and  enjoyed  many,  and 
to  myself,  most  memorable  "  white  hours."  I  therefore  com- 
mend to  you,  with  my  final  words,  the  Order  of  Sons  of  Tem- 
perance of  North  America,  as  a  most  admirable  school  of  popu- 
lar debate  and  elocpience,  of  good  morals  and  principles,  of  fel- 
lowship and  brotherhood — a  place  of  safety,  the  way  to  honor, 
and  the  post  of  duty  to  God,  yourselves,  your  "neighbor,"  and 
yoiir  coimtry. 


!i 


1  ' 


^        \ 


i      I 


HON.    FDMINn    DIL  L  A  MUNTY, 

G.  WP     or    TENNESSEE. 

TiiK  ('n(|iiiriiiir  niiml  namniliy  turns  (o  tlii"  history  of  the  life, 
s(>r\  Kcs,  ami  privatr  \  irtui'S  of  those  who  adorn  and  j'h'vatc  the 
(;haia(  tcr  of  inankiiul.  The  history  of  every  foixl  man  will 
ever  .stand  as  a  heacim  hirht  to  youth — poinliiii,'-  them  to  the 
paths  of  honor  and  n-nown.  Anioni:  the  distinirnished  names 
that  lia\t'  from  time  to  time  apjH-ared,  in  fonncction  witli  lh«' 
Ordi-r  of  the  Sons  of  Teniperame,  n(tne,  perhaps,  hns  shone 
with  a  iirighter  lustre,  or  merits  more  the  esteem  of  every  lover 
of  the  cause,  than  the  >nl»iect  of  the  following  sketch. 


Edmi-nd  DiLLAHiNTV,  of  Columhia,  Tennesse'^,  was  horn  on 
tlie  2Slh  day  of  Sepleml»er,  lbU'>,  on  Richland  Creek,  in  David- 
son county,  seven  miU-s  sonth  of  Nashville.  He  was  the  fourth 
m  descent  from  a  Huirnenot.  one  of  a  ntimeroiis  family,  who 
lied  from  France  after  tlie  revocation  of  the  ediot  of  Nantes. 
He  went  with  his  fatlu'r  to  Holland,  remained  theic  for  a  short 
time,  and  then,  with  oiIkt  njemlH-rs  of  his  family,  went  to  Duh- 
iiii  in  Ireland;  and  wlirn  still  (piite  youns",  came  to  America, 
alioiit  tli(>  year  171-'>.  He  settled  on  Clu'sapeake  Bay,  in  the 
then  colony  of  ^hlrylan^l,  wjiere  he  continued  to  reside  until 


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HON.    EDMUND   DILLAHUNTY.G.W.P 


181 


the  time  of  his  death.  He  married  after  he  came  to  America, 
and  raised  a  family  of  several  children,  among  whom  was  the 
Rev.  John  Dillahunty,  who  was  born  on  the  eighth  of  Decem- 
ber, 172.S.  On  the  fourth  of  Jime,  1747,  he  married  the  daugh- 
ter of  Francis  Neal,  Esq.,  of  Baltimore.  In  a  few  years  after 
his  marriage,  he  moved  to  the  colony  of  North  Carolina,  about 
thirty  miles  from  Newbern,  where  he  continued  to  reside  until 
the  year  17'.'(j,  when  he  removed  with  his  son,  Thomas,  and 
settled  on  Richland  Creek,  where  he  remained  during  his  life, 
his  death  occuring  in  the  year  1816,  at  the  advanced  age  of  87. 

After  he  removed  to  the  State  of  North  Carolina,  he  received 
an  appointment  connected  with  the  land  office.  His  name  in 
his  commission  was  spelt  as  at  this  day,  the  French  name  being 
De  la  hunte.  Under  the  advice  of  counsel,  he  conformed  the 
spelling  of  his  name  to  liis  commissioK  .  Whilst  still  a  young 
man,  he  became  impressed  with  the  importance  of  Religion, 
and  for  more  than  fifty  years,  was  a  faithful,  zealous  and  efficient 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  la  the  Baptist  Church.  He  was  a  neigh 
bor  and  friend  of  Gov.  Caswell,  and  the  Hon.  Nathan  Bryan, 
with  whom  he  co-operated  during  all  the  struggles  of  the  Revo- 
lution, and  suffi^red  the  losses  in  property  common  to  those  who 
devoted  themselves  to  (he  service  of  their  country. 

He  was  the  first  minister  who  ostablisliptl  a  Chnrcb  south  of 
the  Cumberland  river  and  west  of  the  mo\mtains.  Though  not 
liberally  educated  himself,  he  was  well  informed  on  all  tlie  great 
subjects  connected  with  man,  his  duties  and  his  rights ;  and  few 
men,  old  or  young,  in  his  day,  exerted  so  extensive  and  happy 
an  influence  throughout  ilie  whole  course  of  his  long  life.  His 
son  Thomas,  was  reared  amid  the  perils  of  the  Revolutionary 
war,  being  a  boy  of  only  eight  or  nine  years  old,  when  (he  diffi- 
culties commenced  between  the  mother  country  and  the  colonies. 
Finding,  when  he  arrived  at  man's  estate,  his  father's  fortune 


182 


HOx\.    EDMUND    DI  LL  A  HUNT  Y  ,   G  .  W.  P  . 


shattcivd,  and  but  little  prospect  for  retrieving  it  in  the  land  of 
liis  nativity,  he  turned  his  steps  towards  the  rich  valleys  of  th'^ 
Cumberland,  and  settled  where  the  subject  of  this  notice  was 
born,  when  Nashville  was  a  petty  village,  and  the  rich  lands 
that  now  surround  it,  adorned  as  they  are  with  elegance  and 
taste,  was  one  vast  interminable  cane-brake.  Aciiuaintcd  with 
dilliculties,  and  inured  to  hardships  and  toil,  he  entered  almost 
alone  upon  the  subjection  of  the  wild  and  luxuriant  forest. 
He  struggled  for  independence,  and  was  successful. 

Edmund  was  too  young  to  know  any  thing  of  the  dangers, 
and  dilliculties  of  pioneer  life.  While  young,  he  was  sent  to 
ihe  connnon  schools  of  the  country ;  and  after  he  had  become 
large  enough  to  labor,  he  took  his  place  on  the  farm,  and  went 
to  school  only  as  he  could  be  spared  after  the  crop  had  been 
made  and  before  it  had  been  gathered  in,  or  after  it  had  been 
gathered  in,  and  before  the  time  of  planting  again  arrived.  His 
father,  though  not  educated,  was  fond  of  books,  and  gathered 
standard  works  011  geography,  history,  and  the  physical  sciences. 
With  these  means,  by  the  time  Edmund  arrived  at  manhood, 
he  had  attained  the  elements  of  a  good  English  education. 
Shortly  before  he  passed  out  of  his  minority,  he  determined  on 
the  profession  of  the  law,  and  with  the  consent  of  his  father, 
went  to  Orccncville  CuUcge,  East  Tennessee,  where  lie  remain- 
ed until  he  entered  on  his  twenty-third  year.  In  1823,  he  com- 
menced the  study  of  law  in  the  office  of  Robert  L.  Cobbs,  Esq., 
then  an  eminent  attorney  in  the  Maury  Circuit.  In  1824,  he 
obtained  licence  to  practice  law,  shortly  after  which  he  went 
into  partnership  with  his  preceptor,  and  at  once  entered  upon 
a  heavy  practice.  In  1831,  he  was  elected  Attorney  General 
U)Y  the  State,  by  the  Legislature,  for  the  district  in  which  he 
lived,  against  powerful  opposition.  In  1834,  the  Constitution 
of  the  Statf  was  amended,  the  courts  re-organized,  and  he  was 


183 


HON.    EDMUND    DILLAHUNTY,  G.  W .  P. 


unanimously  elected  Judge  for  the  8tli  Judicial  Circuit  of  Ten- 
nessee. At  the  expiration  of  eight  years,  he  was  unanimously 
re-elected,  and  holds  the  office  at  the  present  time,  under  his 
last  election. 

In  1845,  in  his  absence,  and  without  his  knowledge,  he  was 
elected  Grand  Master  of  Masons  in  Tennessee.  In  184G,  he  was 
unanimously  re-elected  to  the  same  office.  In  October,  1840,  he 
was  elected  Grand  Worthy  Patriarch  of  the  Grand  Division, 
Sons  of  Temperance,  of  Tennessee,  which  office  he  now  fills. 

For  nearly  thirty  years,  he  has  been  a  laborious  student. 
Wlulst  a  lawyer,  without  any  display,  he  always  came  well 
prepared  to  the  argument  of  his  causes.  His  arguments  were 
characterized  more  by  plain  coumion  sense  than  any  attempt 
at  embellishment  by  oratory  ;  yet  there  were  times  when  he 
felt,  and  deeply  felt,  the  wrongs  of  his  client,  and  he  seldom 
failed  to  arouse  in  the  minds  of  the  jury  the  same  honest  indig- 
nation that  swelled  in  his  own  l)osom.  Having  associated  much 
in  early  life  with  the  lal)oring  classes,  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  their  wants  and  sympathies ;  and  without  any  of  the  arts 
of  the  demagogue,  he  could  readily  touch  those  chords  in  their 
nature  that  vibrated  in  his  own. 

He  always  avoided  political  strife — never  sought  or  desired 
any  political  office ;  and  although  never  a  neutral  in  any  poli- 
tical or  moral  question,  he  has  ever  avoided  the  political  heat 
and  excitement  of  a  partizan. 

As  a  Judge,  he  has  aided  in  elevating  the  standard  of  profes- 
sional character,  and  has  exercised  an  influence  over  the  pub- 
lic nund,  in  its  respect  for  law  and  morals,  that  few  men,  if 
any,  have  ever  done.  Understanding  the  law  well,  as  a  science, 
and  being  also  well  versed  in  the  history  of  man,  he  has  on  all 
suitable  occasions  endeavored,  through  the  administralion  of  the 
law,  to  arouse  the  public  mind  to  the  importance  of  educatioii 


r 


I  I 


184 


HON.    EDMUND    DILLAHUNTY.G.  W.P. 


Jiiul  sound  nioialify  as  a  means  of  preventing  ciinie,  of  uphold- 
inj^  free  government,  and  placing  within  the  reach  of  every 
in(hvi(hial  tluit  happiness  which  secures  social  prosperity,  hy 
causing  each  one  to  feel  that  his  wants  and  interests  were  not 
forgotten  l)y  the  government  that  claimed  his  suhniission. 

His  habits  were  always  sober;  but  whilst  Attorney  General, 
the  common  sense  view  he  was  accustomed  to  take  of  things, 
led  him  to  trace  crime  to  its  causes,  and  he  soon  found  that 
ignorance  and  intemperance  were  the  occasion  of  at  least  nine- 
lenths  of  the  crime  that  came  under  his  supervision.  As  early 
as  1834,  he  began  to  point  tlie  public  mind  to  the  importance 
of  some  concentrated  action  lu  suppress  the  evil  of  Intemper- 
ancc  ;  from  that  day  until  the  present  time  he  has  been  an  un- 
compromising and  efllcient  advocate  of  the  Temperance  move- 
ment. When  the  Order  of  the  Sons  of  Temperance  was  intro- 
(hiced  into  his  State,  he  was,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
among  the  Jirst  to  enter  its  ranks. 

He  is  a  man  of  by  no  means  a  robust  constitution,  but  cet 
fainly  one  that  is  well  balanced;  otherwise  he  could  not  have 
performed  the  labor  he  has  undergone,  without  showing  more 
of  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  than  is  exhibited  in  his  person.  He 
is  now  nearly  fifty  years  of  age,  and  still,  his  grey  hairs  ex- 
cepted, has  all  the  fieshness  and  vigor  of  youth. 

In  addition  to  the  labors  of  his  office,  he  has  for  about  fifteen 
years  had  under  his  direction,  young  men  preparing  for  the  law, 
to  whom  he  devotes  much  time,  and  takes  great  pains  in  in- 
structing them  for  the  profession,  and  giving  them  proper  views 
of  life  ;  and  he  is  now,  and  has  been  for  the  last  twelve  months, 
a  lecturer  in  Jackson  College,  of  which  he  is  a  visitor.  His 
\enerable  mother,  now  eighty  years  of  age,  resides  with  tlie 
Judge,  in  the  enjoyment  of  good  health,  and  the  possession  of 
ail  her  mental  faculties. 


INTEMPERANCE. 


BY    HON.    EDMUND    DILLAHUNTY,   O.   W.   P. 


God  has  sem  fit  in  liis  wisdom,  to  subject  all  the  works  of  his 
hands  to  the  dominion  of  law,  from  the  tallest  seraph  that  night 
and  day  strikes  his  harp  round  the  Eternal  Throne,  down  to  the 
insect  that  floates  in  the  sunbeam.  The  erratic  comet  that  flies 
away  as  if  disdaining  all  control,  but  its  own  caprice,  after  wan- 
dering for  ages  in  regions  the  ken  of  the  philosopher  has  never 
yet  explored,  at  length,  in  conformity  to  the  laws  of  its  nature, 
returns  and  pays  homage  due  to  the  sun.  The  sun,  moon,  and 
stars  shine  forth  the  will  of  Him  who  rules  th'^m.  Even  to  the 
winds  and  waves  God,  their  master  has  set  bounds  and  decreed 
rules.  He  blows  his  breath  upon  old  ocean  and  she  rolls  her 
waves  to  the  shore  :  He  speaketh  to  the  thunder  and  it  answers 
back  the  voice  of  obedience  :  He  sendeth  for  the  lightnings  and 
they  come  up  to  do  his  bidding.  And  when  we  come  to  ana- 
lyze man  we  find  that  every  part  of  his  complex  being,  whether 
spirit,  mind,  or  matter,  is  no  less  the  subject  of  law  than  the 
material  universe  around. 

To  every  violation  of  any  one  of  these  laws  the  Divine  Low- 


186 


intp:mperance. 


giver  lias  anncxt'd  a  penally  proportioned  always  to  tlio  charac- 
ter and  deirree  of  (lie  oulrag-c.     It  is  wriMen  by  (>very  star  in 
heaven,  by  every  snnbeani  upon  the  earth,  and  proclaimed  by 
every  voice  in  nature,  nothing  can  violate  the  laws  of  its  beini»- 
with  impunity.      Therefore,  let  every  ofleiider  aj^ainst  nature 
know  (his  fact  that,  so  certain  as  niyht  f<»llows  day,  he  will, 
sooner  or  later,  reap  the  bitter  fruits  of  his  wickedness  and  folly. 
Self  in(eres(,  (hen,  apart  from  every  other  consideration,  would 
teach  us  to  he  temperate ;  for,  there  is  no  law  of  man's  nature, 
moral,  mental,  or  physical,  that  intemperance  does  not  violate  ; 
and  most  bitterly,  too,  does  he  pay  for  such  transgressions.     Its 
physical  efrec(s  are  disease,  sufTiMincr,  decay,  death.     It  deranges 
the  nervous  system,  poisons  the  l)lood,  and  corrui>ts  those  lluids 
nature  has  furnished  for  the  health  and  nutri(ion  of  (he  body. 
If  there  is  any  predisposition  in  the  system  for  disease,  (he  germ 
is  certain  to  be  developed  by  the  use  of  ardent  spirits.     Ask  the 
candid,  the  honest  physician,  and  he  will  tell  you  this ;  and  he 
will  also  tell  you  that,  intemperance  is  the  parent  of  well  nigh 
every  disease.     Climate  and  local  causes  do  much,  but  intem- 
perance still  more,  to  give  the  physician  employment — not  (o 
speak  of  the  thousand  deaths  by  apoplexy,  by  shooting,  by  stab- 
bing, by  drowning,  by  burning,  by  freezing,  that  are  brought 
about  by  drunkenness.      It  has  done  more  to  people  the  city 
of  the  dead,  than  fire,  famine,  pestilence,  and  the  sword.     It 
is  the  destroying  angel  upon  whose  footsteps  death  waits  to  glut 
himself  with  human  sacrifice.     Could  the  myriad  of  its  slain  be 
collected  together,  it  would  take  an  arch-angel,  speaking  with 
tlie  dialect  of  Heaven,  to  number  the  multitude. 

Granted,  that  immediate  death  is  not  always  the  consequence 
of  drunkenness.  The  same  may  be  said  of  any  other  poison, 
even  the  most  active.  But  better,  r,  that  the  man  should  die 
at  once,  than  to  linger  out  an  existence  of  wretchedness  and 


INTEMPERANCE. 


181 


misery:  an  existence  tluit  iniyht  be  called  a  living  death — a 
blossoniini,^,  a  vegetating  for  the  grave — without  the  pleasures  of 
life,  or  relief  of  death.  He  uiutn  whom  the  monster  has  laid 
his  hand  may  l)id  adieu  to  health  and  happiness  in  this  life,  and 
surely  he  cannot  hope  for  any  reward  in  that  Heaven,  where 
it  is  said  nothing  unclean  shall  ever  enter. 

But  it  stops  not  here.  Its  ravages  extend  to  the  whole  man, 
laying  body,  mind,  and  soul  in  ruins.  The  pror.viest  intellects 
that  ever  marked  their  Ijurning  track  across  the  field  of  science, 
when  clouded  by  drunkenness,  have  sunk  to  rest  enveloped  in 
the  dun  pall  of  a  starless  night  of  obscurity.  And  though  ever 
and  anon,  as  it  dies  out,  its  Hashes  may  break  forth,  like  light- 
ning beneath  the  storm-cloud,  they  serve  to  increase  rather  than 
interrupt  the  darkness.  It  is  truly  a  leveller  of  all  grades  and 
distinctions  in  intellect.  It  stultifies  the  mind  of  the  philoso- 
pher, and  can  do  no  more  for  that  of  the  fool.  My  heart  bleeds, 
and  the  tear  unbidden  starts  to  the  eye,  as  I  behold  the  wreck 
of  that  mind  in  whose  presence  kings  might  have  trembled,  and 
royalty  stood  rebuked.  Angels  might  weep  as  they  heard  the 
wild  bachanal  revels  of  passion  that,  reverberating  amid  the 
broken  arches  and  fallen  columns  of  the  ruined  palace  of  the 
soul,  proclaimed  the  melancholy  tale,  that  usurpers  sat  upon  the 
throne  once  consecrated  to  reason.  It  would  take  a  fiend  from 
the  region  of  despair  to  tell  the  anguish  of  a  spirit  that  writhes 
under  the  despotism  of  evil  passions. 

The  use  of  ardent  spirits  not  only  clouds  the  intellect,  weak- 
ens the  understanding,  and  totally  unfits  the  mind  for  the  acqui- 
sition of  knowledge,  but  tends  directly  to  dissipate  what  know- 
ledge may  have  been  acquired.  Every  day  the  man  continues 
its  use  he  is  retrograding,  like  one  who  labors  against  the  cur- 
rent, when  he  fails  to  strike  the  oar  he  not  only  ceases  to  ad- 
vance, but  is  borne  ofl'  on  the  bosom  of  the  flood. 


I 


188 


INTEMPERANCE. 


If  all  this  1)0  true,  how  is  it,  it  is  asked,  tliat  some  of  ihv  mnsi 
hiilliant  sciiK illations  of  (renins  have  been  stricken  from  minds 
in  which  alcohol  had  kindled  its  hiaze  ?  We  answer  that,  in 
this  way — the  meteor  may  blaze  with  a  brighter  ji^lare  for  a  mo- 
ment, l)ut  does  it  shine  on  with  the  imdimmed  radiance  of  the 
fixed  star?  And  it  is  the  unnatural  briijhtness  of  the  meteor 
that  causes  it  so  soon  to  die  out  and  be  forgotten.  The  mind 
thus  stimulated,  like  the  chariot  of  the  sun  driven  by  the  reck- 
less Plux'ton,  will  Ik;  set  on  fire  and  consume  itself  by  the  rapid- 
ity of  its  own  motion. 

But  the  above  objection  to  the  truth  of  the  remark,  that 
drunkenness  debases  the  intellect,  proves  no  more  than  this,  that 
nature  has  blessed  some  men  with  such  extraordinary  powers  of 
mind  that  those  powers,  though  weakened,  cannot  be  destroyed 
but  by  long  and  the  grossest  alnise ;  just  as  some  animals  may 
feed  on  poison  without  immediate  death.  I  appeal  to  every  one 
who  reads  this,  if  they  ever  kn(>w  any  one  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  getting  drunk,  to  retain  for  any  length  of  time  his  vigor  of 
mind?  There  cannot  be  but  one  answer  to  this  (jucstion.  But 
why  fatigue  myself  and  weary  your  patience  in  proving  that 
which  is  as  evident  as  any  axiom  in  mathematics  1 

If  possible,  its  work  of  moral  ruin  is  more  awful  still.  It  is  a 
fact,  my  experience  liotb  as  a  lawyer  and  a  judge  has  tauglit 
me,  that  nine-tenths  of  the  crimes  which  stain  our  records, 
which  were  attended  with  violence,  are  the  natural  conse- 
quences of  the  use  of  ardent  spirits.  Drunkenness  docs  some- 
thing more  than  degrade  man  to  a  level  with  the  brute.  It 
gives  him  the  folly  of  the  brute,  but  the  madness  of  the  dejuon. 
It  corrupts  every  fountain  of  moral  purity  in  the  heart,  and 
causes  them  to  send  out  a  foid  flood  whose  bitterness  and  poison 
are  death.  The  "  worm  of  the  still,"  eats  out  every  generous 
emotion,  every  thing  ennobling  in  the  heart  of  man.     He  who 


INTEMPERANCE. 


189 


was  tlie  tender  husliand,  the  afl'ectionate  brother,  the  dutiful 
son,  the  ooiisiaut  friend  and  kind  neighbor,  luis  been  transformed 
into  th(!  unfeebng  wretch  whose  heart  no  longer  tliroI)s  with 
any  senliinent  of  kindness  and  love,  but  who  has  Ijuried  the 
past,  with  its  fond  recollections,  tin-  present  with  its  joys,  and 
the  future  with  its  hopes,  in  the  danuiing  cup  of  intoxication. 
Could  the  grave  give  up  its  dond,  could  hell  send  up  its  wit- 
nesses, could  beggared  wives  luid  starving  orphans  come  from 
their  dark  anil  desolate  abodes  of  despair,  to  tell  their  tale  of 
woe,  w  ith  what  trumpet-tongues  would  they  stand  up  to  plead 
against  the  deep  damnation  of  drunkenness! 

And  shall  not  we  rise  up  against  an  enemy  that  has  strewed 
the  world  with  its  slain,  has  peopled  the  grave  with  its  dead,  has 
filled  the  earth  with  sighs  and  groans,  and  made  the  profouudest 
deep  of  hell  give  back  the  sound  of  wailing  and  of  woe?  Shall 
we  not  strike  down  this  hydra-headed  monster,  that  lifts  its  head 
on  high  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  war-club  of  Hercules?  Shall 
we  close  the  book  in  despair  and  abandon  man  to  his  fate  ;  or 
shall  we  exert  ourselves  to  rescue  man,  noljle  by  nature,  and 
capable  of  being  still  more  ennobled  by  education  ? 

As  we  have  before  stated,  there  is  not  a  law  of  man's  nature 
drunkenness  does  not  outrage ;  nor  any  duty,  whether  to  our- 
selves or  others,  it  does  not  violate :  and  God  has  said,  through- 
out the  universe,  in  vain  may  happiness  be  sought  but  by  the 
performance  of  duty.  It  pandyses  the  moral  energies  as  with 
the  touch  of  death.     In  a  word,  it  is  man's  evil  genius. 

God  has  been  pleased  to  place  the  enjoyment  of  the  high- 
est earthly  bliss  in  the  domestic  relation  of  husband  and  wife. 
The  voluptuous  Turk,  who  revels  in  the  debauchery  of  the 
harem,  the  libertine,  who  boasts  that,  like  the  bee,  he  sips  sweets 
from  a  thousand  blossoms,  has  no  conception  of  that  bliss  with- 
out alloy,  that  pleasure  without  remorse,  that  contentment  of 


H:\l 


V.)0 


INTKMPERANCE. 


spirit,  that  calm,  quirt  joy  tliai  iriaddens  the  heart  of  the  hiis- 
li.iiul  of  (»iie  wife,  the  father  of  a  healthy,  virtuous  odsprin^r 
horn  in  h<ily  weiHork.  In  this  relation  alone  is  to  he  found  on 
earth  dial  |)erf((tion  of  hhss,  that  fdls  up  the  rapacities  of  ihe 
soul  for  enjoyment.  Marriage  is  the  heautiful  imaije  that  conies 
hke  a  niessenirer  divine  to  our  early  dreams  of  hajipiness.  It  is 
the  FJ(l(»nido  to  the  heart's  youn?  hopes;  the  oasis  amid  the 
desert  waste  of  life,  smilinjr  in  iK'aiity,  trladdeninir  the  faintinfr 
heart  of  the  traveler;  a  irreen  island,  laujrhinff  amid  the  ocean's 
tempests.  The  fisherman  of  Lapland,  returninij  from  his  daily 
toil,  cold,  wet,  and  l^enuniU'd,  ftvis  his  heart  warm  within  him 
as  he  hears  the  voice  of  his  wife  hreakinsj  over  tlu'  waves,  call- 
ing' to  him,  "come  home,  come  home."  To  the  sacred  relation 
of  marriage  the  thoughts  of  the  gootl  and  virtuous  tend,  as  the 
rivers  to  the  ocean.  This  is  the  casket  that  contains  the  richest 
jewel  of  happiness.  Here  are  garnered  up  the  heart's  fondest 
hopes  and  dearest  joys ;  and  if  these  hopes  are  hlasted,  if  these 
joys  are  lost, 

"  Life  hath  no  more  to  bring 
But  mockeries  of  the  past  alone." 


But  drunkenness  is  the  sequent  that  enters  this  hlissful  Eden, 
to  mar  its  pleasures,  and  drive  forth  that  happy  pair  from  those 
delightful  walks  and  shady  lx)wers,  where,  with  every  thing 
"  sweet  to  sense  and  lovely  to  the  eye  "  they  had  passed  away 
their  lives  "  like  a  beautiful  dream."  At  the  presence  of  the 
monster,  the  flowers  of  hope  and  happiness,  the  rosebuds  of  love 
that  bloom  in  this  garden  fade  away,  and  thorns,  brambles,  and 
noxious  weeds  spring  up  in  liis  path.  Where  spring  bedecked 
the  earth  with  flowers,  winter,  bleak  winter,  now  sheds  its  deso- 
lation. The  wife  beholds  "  him  wiio  was  her  chosen,"  to  fol- 
low whom  she  had  forsaken  father,  mother,  the  home  of  her 


INTK.Nn'KUANrK. 


I!tl 


iliiltllutod,  and  all  chc  world  licsidcs — liiiii  fo  wlioiii  nIi»*  luul 
loiiiiiiilicd  litT  dcsliiiy,  in  all  llic  ((inlidcufc  of  lov — ItaniNlu-d 
Iniiii  suoii'ty,  wandering  iv  Ix'irgar,  an  oulcasJ  Ujion  tlii"  carlli, 
Itaidxi'iiiil  in  ftirlnnc,  bankrnpl  in  morals,  l)ankri)i)t  even  in  hope. 
Is  that  Ik?  who  a  I'rw  years  ago  coinnu'nred  life  with  such  hril- 
liant  prospects  before  him?  Who  had  youth,  health,  talent, 
fume,  fortune,  a  honu'  endeared  hy  tho  love  of  the  loveliest  of 
women,  every  thinff  that  could  make  life  desirahle,  tjr  that  the 
human  heart  coulil  wish  ?  He  we;irs  the  same  name,  hut  there 
stops  the  parallel!  And  does  his  wife  fors;d<e  him?  No! 
True  to  her  sex,  true  fo  her  own  kind  nature,  with  a  self-sacri 
ficing'  devotion,  she  clings  to  him  even  in  his  degradation  !  And 
like  the  tender  vine,  she  attempts  to  l)ind  u()  and  conceal  the 
shattered  trunk  of  the  oak  hhisled  hy  the  lightnings  of  heaven! 
Is  that  the  lovely  bride,  the  beautiful  among  the  beauteous, 
the  gaze  of  every  admiring  eye,  the  beloved  of  all,  whom  we 
saw  led  unto  the  altar,  and  with  thoughts  pure  as  the  dreams 
of  the  infant  mind  unstained  by  sin,  and  hopes  bright  as  the 
sky  in  evening  beauty,  vow  to  love,  and  live  for  him  to  whom 
she  had  plighted  her  young  heart,  rich  in  the  untold  treasures 
of  a  maiden's  first  love?  Yes,  'tis  she.  But  now  how  chang- 
ed !  The  bridal  wreath  has  faded  from  that  brow  which  the 
gloomy  cypress  now  encircles.  That  eye  swims  tears  that 
erst  laughed  out  in  joy.  In  that  heart,  once  the  abode  of  every 
happy  thought,  desolation  now  holds  its  empire.  The  beau- 
tiful rose  torn  from  its  stem  lies  withering  on  the  ground.  The 
young  wife,  with  no  patrimou.  left  but  her  honor,  no  friend 
but  her  God,  no  tie  binding  her  to  earth  but  her  babes,  is  thus 
penniless,  friendless,  homeless,  thrown  upon  the  mercy  of  the 
cold  charities  of  the  world !  Who  now  wnll  soothe  the  an- 
guish of  that  mother's  heart,  and  satisfy  the  cries  of  those 
children   for  bread  ?     The  winds  with  hollow  moan,  as   they 


I'.fJ 


I  N  T  E  M  P  K  R  A  N  C  K 


swrrp  hy  (lii-  loiK'ly  «'oJia^M',  givr  li.uk  llic  only  answrr  Jo  tiini 
wailing  orirs.  TIm*  fallH-r  slcrps  in  a  (Irmikanr.s  grave,  and 
lieeds  not  llio  sturnts  dial  hold  tlirir  revels  almvt;  lii.s  lieud! 

This  is  no  sunharged  picture.  The  penciling  has  failed  to 
express  half  tin'  deformities  that  mark  the  orginal  with  which 
every  one  is  familiar  who  has  mingled  with  the  world.  The 
wife  who  was  reared  in  ease  and  luxury,  whose  every  want 
was  not  only  supplied,  hut  antici|)aled,  l»y  the  fondest  of  pa- 
renUi,  is  now  h-ft  to  slruggh;  tmaided  against  the  ruile  winds 
of  udversity,  and  forced  to  provide  from  her  own  lahor  for  the 
wants  of  herself  and  family.  The  children,  whose  teniler 
years  need  a  father's  fostering  cnre,  without  education,  without 
hnhits  of  industry,  and  fixed  moral  principles,  without  every 
thing  hut  those  evil  passions,  that,  like  weeds  in  a  negleciid 
garden,  have  run  to  riot  for  want  of  timely  pruning,  are  turned 
upon  society,  heset  with  every  temptation,  idleness,  poverl\, 
want,  and  shame,  to  do  wrong.  What  will  he  their  destiny, 
God  alone,  in  his  wisdom,  ojin  foresee ;  hut  the  future  forbodes 
no  good. 

Considered  as  a  mi're  political  system,  the  ostahlishment  of 
society  into  families,  with  Ji  ruler  over  each  having  power  to 
create  and  execute  hiws  for  its  regulation,  is  one  of  the  wisest 
schemes  of  policy  that  ever  was  conceived  of  hy  the  legisla- 
tor. It  is  the  best  pledge  the  state  can  have  for  the  welfart; 
of  the  rising  generation,  upon  whose  shoulders  her  fabric  must 
soon  rest ;  because  the  father  is  moved  by  his  natural  ulfec- 
tions,  and  by  a  sense  of  duty,  to  provide  a  settlem(>nt  in  life, 
and  give  a  good  education  and  sound  moral  training  to  those 
who  are  indebted  to  him  for  their  existence.  The  parent  is 
the  guardian  for  the  child  and  the  trustee  for  the  state.  A 
family  is  the  state  in  miniature  where  the  young  mind  is  taught 
the  duty  of  submission  to  lawful  authority,  and  learned  to  bear 


.ift 
(III 

l.-.r 
(»,'■( 
.-lo 


tf.y. 


I  N  T  K  M  !•  F,  K  A  N  ('  K . 


inn 


Iv  el  rail! 
must 
uircc- 

|in  lifi', 
those 

Iront  is 

Itc.  A 
taught 

Ito  bear 


thi-   hit  iiliil  nuhiir  the   iriii  dl    w  hnlcsouic   rcsfiaiiU,    whuifhy 
(h<>  rhilil   is  Ir.'iinnl   for  ihr   hit^'hcr  ihilirs  of  ihc  citi/cn. 

Mm  iIm'  (riultiicy,  nay  iIic  rH'ci-r,  of  (InmkciiiicHs  is  tornuii 
(oract  all   ilif  (•»)nM't|iiciicfs  (if  ^rniMJ  iiiisinu;-  iVnin  the  csiiiMish- 
liirlil  of  this  syslfiii.      It  lakes  awiiy  from  the   I'aiiiily  its   lieiid, 
its  proleclor,  or  what  is  wurse,  converts  him  into  a  riirst*  instead 
of  a  hiessiiitr   to  ihat   family.     The  wife   is   roltlicd  of  iicr   jiiis- 
hand,  ihe  (hildren  of  their   father,  and   the  stale,  instead    of  the 
healthy,   virluoiis,   well   educated   citizens  she    had    a    rii,dil  to 
expect,  and  who  mi<,dit  have  added  new  trophies  to  her  renown, 
is   cursed   with   a   set   of    tattered    prodiirals,   miseralde    paupers, 
vicious,  uneducated  va<j;d»onds,  tiiiit  exhaust    hut  supply  n<tL  her 
resomces — that   scatter  hut   u''ather   not   up   to   her   wealth;  and 
thus  they  i^o  forth,  ..,,c  oidy  corrupt  in  themselves,  hut  corrupt- 
in<r  others  with  whom  they  come  in  contact,  wlio  in   llieir  turn 
corrupt  ;  thus  hecominu['  new  sinrtiny  points  of  evil  which  con- 
tinually widens  its  circle,  until  it  is  dill'iised  into  every  ramifi- 
cation  of   society.     Who  can  calculate   the   injury   one  sini,'^le 
wicked  iulluencc  ex(>rls  upon  the  community?     Like  (he  stone; 
thrown  into  the  c;dm   lake,  the  commotion   stirred    is  conveyed 
from   wave   to   wave,    until  the   last   one   has   dashed   and   died 
ag'ainst    the   rocky  shore.     The  hones  of  Hume,   llosscau,  Vol- 
taire, and  Paine  have  long  since  mouldered   into  dust,  hut  the 
iiilluence  they  exerted   for  evil  still  lives,  and  will  conlinue  to 
live  till  the  death  of  lime. 

A  late  distinguished  Allorney  General  of  the  United  States, 
after  a  careful  examination  of  the  statistics,  estimated  the  an- 
nual cost  of  ardent  spirits  to  the  nation,  directly  and  as  a  con- 
se(iuence  of  disease  and  crime,  at  one  hundrtnl  millions  of  dol- 
lars— a  sum  e([ual  to  four  times  that  necessary  U)  defray  the 
ordinary  ex|)enses  of  government.  One  huudri'd  millions  of 
dollars  per  annum  we  pay  to  hesot  our  minds,  debase  our  nn.*- 


l! 


194 


INTEMPERANCE. 


'     1^ 


ills,  riiul  pnrnlyze  our  bodies!  How  small  a  cost  for  such  a 
glorious  blessing" ! 

Suppose  this  amount  was  distributed  amongst  the  difTerenl 
States,  it  would  enable  them  to  pay  off  their  debts,  to  clear  out 
ihcir  rivers,  improve  their  harbors,  cut  canals,  build  lail-roads, 
bridge  their  highways,  establish  free  schools  for  the  education 
of  the  poor,  and  erect  asylums  for  the  relief  of  the  afllicted. 
But  this  sum  had  l)etter  far  be  thrown  into  the  sea  than  expend- 
ed as  it  now  is.  It  goes  to  purchase  that  whereby  wives  are 
beggared,  children  reduced  to  starvation,  and  the  greyheaded 
sires  are  deprived  of  their  comforts,  and  brought  to  want  and 
suffering  in  their  old  age. 

And  by  whom  is  this  enormous  burden  borne  1  By  the  la- 
boring interest.  There  is  no  political  maxim  better  established, 
than  that  all  expenditures  are  a  charge  upon  labor.  It  is  labor 
that  supplies  the  continued  drain  upon  a  nation's  or  an  individ- 
ual's resources.  This  is  the  propelling  power  without  which 
the  machinery  of  government  must  stand  still.  Let  the  labor- 
ing classes  think  of  this,  and  say  if  they  are  willing  their  indus- 
try and  ingenuity  shall  be  taxed,  annuallv,  one  hundred  mil- 
lions of  dollars  to  bring  ruin  upon  themselves  and  the  country. 

But  this  is,  by  no  nu^sms,  the  main  cost  to  the  nation.  Our 
soil  is  so  productive,  our  industry  so  active,  our  energies  so  vig- 
orous, tbat  we  can  bear  all  this  and  more  without  being  im- 
poverished. It  is  that  intellectual  night,  that  moral  bankruptcy 
which  drunkenness  brings  upon  the  country,  this  is  the  loss  lo 
the  nation  that  cannot  be  reckoned  by  dollars  and  cents.  Fire, 
famine,  pestilence,  and  the  sword  may  ravage  '^er  borders,  her 
cities  may  be  laid  in  ashes,  her  fields  drenched  in  the  blood  of 
her  citizens,  the  elements  of  heaven  may  lend  their  aid  to  com- 
plete the  work  of  desolation,  yet,  if  her  moral  energies  are 
unimpaired,  from  all  these  calarnities  she  may  recover.     But 


INTEMPERANCE. 


ich  a 

Verent 
ar  out 
-roatls, 
ication 
llictcd. 
ipend- 
:es  are 
licadcd 
nt  and 

the  la- 
blisbed, 
is  labor 
individ- 
t  which 
e  laboi- 
ir  indus- 
cd  mil- 
coxintry. 
n.     Ouv 
|s  so  vig- 
nng  ini- 
ikruplcy 
le  loss  to 
IS.     Fire, 
[dcrs,  her 
I  blood  of 
to  com- 
Irgies  are 
ler.    But 


wlicn  llu'sc  are  destroyed  sbc  has  lost  her  last  and  only  bope. 
Siie  hatli  no  longer  any  vivifying,  self-reviving  principle.  It  is 
the  moral  energy  of  a  nation  that  mans  the  hearts  of  her  saih)rs 
as  they  clamber  up  the  mast  to  rig  tiic  vessel  for  the  fight,  or 
for  the  coming  storm — that  nerves  the  arm  of  her  soldiery  as 
they  scale  the  spear-»:overed  battlements,  where  death  gleams  in 
every  lance.  And  here  I  repeat,  that  no  nation  has  any  host- 
age of  security  but  in  the  morals  of  her  people. 

And  what  remedy  have  we  for  all  these  evils  ?  I  know  but 
one  of  safety — total  abstinence  from  all  stimulating  drinks  as  a 
beverage.  All  other  temporizing  expedients,  like  an  opiate 
given  to  a  man  who  has  swallowed  a  deadly  poison,  may  lull 
the  pain  bui  will  fail  to  remove  the  danger.  Would  you 
destroy  the  tree,  content  not  yourself  with  lopping  oil"  the 
branches,  but  pluck  it  up  by  the  roots.  If  you  have  never 
indulged  the  use  of  ardent  spirits,  your  plan  of  safety  is  to 
therish  and  maintain  your  scruples  about  the  first  indulgence. 
The  only  way  to  be  virtuous  or  temperate  is  to  be  wholly  so. 
To  hold  dalliance  with  vice,  specially  that  of  drunkenness,  is 
certain  death.  The  general  who  would  break  down  his  walls 
to  show  that  he  depended  upon  nothing  but  the  valor  of  his 
troops  and  his  own  skill  for  defence,  might  be  applauded  for 
his  daring;  but  should  certainly  be  censured  for  his  rashness. 
No  situation  so  secure,  no  safeguard  so  complete,  as  to  be  re- 
moved not  only  from  all  exposure,  but  all  possible  liability  to 
danger.  I  think  I  hear  some  sensible  young  mnn  reply — "  I 
admit  the  truth  of  all  you  have  said.  I  know  drunkenness  to 
be  all  and  more  than  you  have  described ;  but  what  you  hav(^ 
said  does  not  reach  ?ny  case.  I  am  a  moderate  drinker.  I 
know  when  to  indulge  and  how  umch,  and  when  to  refrain  ; 
and  I  have  such  perfect  conunanu  over  my  appetite,  that  I  can 


190 


INTEMPERANCE. 


wholly  abandon  it  whenever  I  please.     Therefore,  thy  warn- 
ings are  lost  upon  nie. 

Alas !  I  fear  they  are !  The  enemy  has  completely  deluded 
thee  by  his  siren  song  of  security  and  safety.  You  are  asleoj), 
and  know  not  that  the  volcano  is  ready  to  open  at  your  feet  and 
overwhelm  you  with  its  burning  lava.  The  fallacious  reason- 
ings you  ofler,  are  the  same  with  which  every  drunkard  in  the 
world  has  first  deceived  himself,  and  then  attempted  to  impose 
upon  others.  I  know  I  run  the  risk  of  offending  you  when  I 
tell  you,  there  is  danger  of  your  becoming  a  drunkard.  But 
the  truth  must  be  told.  No  man  ever  dreamed  of  becoming  so 
when  he  commenced.  See  that  poor  w^retch  yonder,  wallowing 
in  the  gutters  of  the  street — that  living  libel  upon  the  dignity  of 
man — that  epitome  of  human  degradation ;  he,  like  yourself, 
was  once  a  moderate  drinker.  So  w^as  the  man  who  yesterday 
expiated  a  life  of  crime  upon  the  gallows.  I  know  you  are  sin 
cere.  Your  confidence  is  an  honest  boldness ;  but  you  are  de  * 
ceived.  I  have  heard  many  who  were  your  equals  in  talent,  \n 
firmness,  in  forbearance,  in  that  self-control  of  which  you  boast, 
speak  the  same  things,  and  yet,  before  they  had  arrived  at  mid- 
dle age,  I  have  seen  them  sink  into  the  grave  of  the  drunkard. 
From  the  warning  voice  of  the  past  learn  a  lesson  of  wisdom, 
and  prepare  for  the  future.  If  you  can  refrain  so  easily  as  you 
say,  why  do  you  not  do  it  ?  Why  will  you  tempt  a  danger  that 
has  proved  the  ruin  of  thousands'?  The  answer  is  at  hand  — 
you  have  become  the  slave  and  not  the  master  of  your  appetite 
as  you  boast. 

The  very  best  reason  why  the  temperate  should  take  the 
pledge  of  total  abstinence  is,  the  very  one  they  give  for  not 
doing  it — that  they  are  whole  and  need  not  a  physician,  that 
they  are  already  temperate,  and  need  nothing  to  make  them  so ; 
because  this  very  absence  of  a  wish  to  indulge  is  the  best  sccu- 


INTEMPERANCE. 


107 


nty  human  frailty  will  allow  that  they  will  keep  thoir  pledge 
inviolate ;  and  thus,  ever  be,  as  they  are  noic,  strictly  temperate, 
I  admit,  at  present  you  may  be  safe.  But  you  cannot  look 
down  (lie  long-  vista  of  the  future.  You  know  not  to  what 
trials,  to  what  temptations  you  may  be  exposed ;  the  many 
cares,  losses,  disappointments,  and  vexations  of  spirit,  that  may 
fall  to  tliy  lot ;  the  many  exposures  to  wind  and  rain,  heat  and 
cold,  you  may  have  to  undergo;  all  pleading  with  thee  to  forget 
thy  sorrows,  and  find  temporary  relief  in  the  sparkling  glass. 
Prepare,  then,  for  the  future,  by  retaining  thy  intellect  un- 
clouded, thy  moral  energies  invigorated,  so  that  you  can  struggle 
against  any  fate  with  the  might  of  a  man. 

How  much  easier  is  it  to  avoid  forming  a  liad  habit,  than  to 
refrain  from  its  indulgence  after  it  is  once  formed.  The  stone 
rolled  from  the  mountain  side,  when  it  first  began  to  move  might 
have  been  stayed  by  an  infant's  arm  ;  l)ut  after  it  has  rolled  on, 
bounding  from  point  to  point,  a  giant's  might  could  not  arrest  its 
course.  The  fountain  that  gurgles,  unnoticed,  from  the  rock, 
forms  a  mighty  river.  The  crisis  in  the  drunkard's  life  is  at  the 
commencement  of  the  use  of  ardent  spirits.  The  falling  of 
a  single  flal<e  of  snow  from  the  mountain  peak  causes  the 
avalanche. 

And  to  you  who  may  have  already  contracted  this  habit,  I 
woidd  say,  arise  at  once,  and  fly  to  the  city  of  refuge  ere  it  is 
too  late.  Several  cases,  perhaps  more  hopeless  than  your  own 
have  been  rescued  from  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  from  the 
very  mouth  of  hell.  Escape,  tlien,  as  a  bird  irom  the  snare  of 
the  fowler.  Your  private  pledges  are  not  sufficient.  Could  thy 
midnight  pillow  witness  against  thee,  did  thj'  tongue  confess 
what  thy  own  heart  doth  know,  could  the  groves  and  secret 
places  of  nature  speak,  how  oft  in  bitterness  of  spirit  and  deep 
contrition  of  heart,  thou  hast  promised  thyself  and  vowed  to  thy 


198 


INTEMPERANCE. 


God  "  sin  no  nioiv,"  they  would  show  how  weak  a  thing-  the 
heart  is,  when  spell  bound  hy  the  sorcery  of  an  evil  ])assion. 
No  one  accuses  you  of  insincerity  in  such  pledges,  and  yet  you 
know  you  have  not  kept  them.  Though  made  in  all  confi- 
dence, they  became  mere  pack-threads  upon  the  unshorn  Samp- 
son they  in  vain  attempted  to  bind.  This,  tlien,  may  show  the 
futility  of  such  pledges  as,  from  their  privacy,  do  not  bring 
along  with  them  the  penal  sanction  of  public  censure  for  their 
violation.  Now  tiie  pledge  we  propose  provides  a  remedy  for 
that  wherein  your  private  pledge  was  defective.  It  is  not  only 
binding-  upon  the  conscience  as  the  other  was,  but  it  brings  with 
it  the  terror  of  the  axe  and  rods  of  the  Lictor — public  opinion. 
And  here,  by  way  of  episode,  let  me  suggest  the  necessity  of 
correcting  and  setting  arig-ht  public  opinion,  since  it  is  that 
which  gives  law  to  this  and  all  other  elective  governments. 
Let  this  magistrate,  of  whom  we  stand  so  much  in  awe,  have 
no  terror  but  for  evil  doers,  teach  nothing  that  is  wrong,  and 
prohibit  nothing  that  is  right. 

Much  good  has  been  done,  and  is  still  being  done,  by  the 
Temperance  Societies.  We  have  no  wish  to  underrate  their 
value,  or  detract  aught  from  their  well-earned  title  to  the  pub- 
lic confidence.  They  have  saved  thousands,  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands, from  ruin ;  have  raised  altars  of  all'ection  and  friendship  long 
broken  down  ;  have  made  the  widowed  heart  leap  for  joy,  and 
wiped  tears  from  the  orphan's  eye  ;  and  made  the  fires  of  joy 
and  gladness  again  burn  brightly,  on  hearths  where  grief  and 
melancholy  have  strewed  their  ashes.  They  had  moral  force, 
but  lacked  that  concentration  and  union  which  give  the  greatest 
strength.  Their  numl)ers  were  immense,  but  lacked  discipline. 
To  remedy  these  defects — to  concentrate  those  energies  that 
lost  uuich  of  their  eflect  by  being  scattered,  to  discipline  and 
form  into  a  regular  army  those  hordes  of  raw  militia,  to  collect 


INTEMPERANCE. 


109 


that  scattered  mass  of  waters  into  one  deep,  narrow,  Alpine 
torrent  that  shall  bear  off  every  thing  l)efore  it — the  "  Order  of 
the  Sons  of  Temperance "  was  established.  The  organization 
of  this  great  moral  force  is  as  plain  and  void  of  complexity  as 
can  be  consistent  with  unity  and  strength.  The  whole  system 
contemplates  an  allotment  of  power  and  duties  among  several 
jurisdictions,  to  wit :  a  National  Division,  State  Divisions,  and 
Subordinate  Divisions.  The  bond  of  union  is  very  simple — 
total  abstinence  from  all  stimulating  drinks  as  a  beverage;  but 
the  constitution  and  by-laws  go  further,  and  provide  for  aid  in 
sickness,  and  relief  in  distress.  It  is  a  great  brotherhood,  in 
which  each  memljer  feels  that  he  has  a  conmion  interest,  and  is 
subject  to  a  common  duty  of  battling  against  intemperance  and 
vice,  and  promoting  the  good  of  our  common  country. 

This  great  moral  project  w^as  set  on  foot  in  1842,  by  sixteen 
men,  ""  good  and  true,"  who  having  felt  the  insufficiency  of  the 
Temperance  Societies  to  do  all  the  wants  of  the  unfortunate 
required,  met  in  the  city  of  New- York,  to  adopt  a  more  syste- 
matic plan  of  operations.  They  organized  the  moral  armament 
now  before  me,  placed  the  sword  of  truth,  burnished,  into  each 
soldier's  hands,  unfurled  the  banners  of  fidelity,  out-posted 
scouts  and  sentinels,  until  the  drum-beat  of  the  whole  line  now 
answers  the  most  distant  report  of  danger. 

Its  object  is  the  subjugation  of  no  province,  the  sacking  of  no 
city,  the  invasion  of  no  foreign  territory ;  but  the  preservation 
of  human  right,  the  security  of  individual  peace  and  domestic 
tranquillity,  the  extirpation  of  vice,  crime,  and  human  misery. 
At  this  time,  it  nund)ers  its  thousands,  tens  and  scores  of  thou- 
sands, made  up  of  every  sex,  every  party,  every  condition,  in 
life.  As  a  means  of  preserving  the  identity  of  the  Order,  and 
of  guarding  its  members  against  the  iuipositions  of  the  crafty 
and  unworthy,  there  are  adopted  certain  signs  of  recognition, 


200 


INTEMPERANCE, 


and  words  of  passport,  which,  of  course,  must  be  a  mystery  to 
all  but  tlie  initiated.  This  we  are  sorry  to  learn,  has  been  made 
the  cause  of  objection  by  some. 

Is  this  a  ground  for  a  serious  objection?  Who  can  under- 
stand and  explain  the  mysterious  union  of  minct  and  matter, 
spirit  and  body,  which  makes  man  the  strnnge,  complex  being 
that  he  is?  All  we  know  are  the  fiicts,  and  these  should  satisfy 
us  in  other  matters  of  less  complexity.  There  is  deep  insolu- 
l)le  mystery  in  the  oceiin.  Who  can  tell  from  whence  it  derives 
its  eternal  supplies  of  salt?  Who  hath  numbered  the  multitude 
that  people  its  waters,  or  counted  the  treasures  of  its  coral  l)eds  ? 
We  hear  the  low  breathings  of  the  zephyrs  at  morn,  the  thun- 
dering of  the  storm  at  noon,  but  cannot  tell  whence  they  come 
or  whither  they  go.  When  God  descended  amid  the  thunder 
of  Sinai,  he  was  pleased  to  veil,  with  a  thick  cloud,  his  glory 
from  mortal  gaze.  The  whole  world  is  a  mystery,  at  least  to 
the  finite  conceptions  of  man. 

But  it  is  secret  in  its  operations.  You  do  not  see  the  propel 
ling  power  that  moves  the  machinery,  but  you  witness  the  efleot 
of  the  force  that  is  gained  ;  and  though  we  cannot  trace  the 
stream  back  to  the  fountain,  and  explain  wdience  it  derives  those 
properties,  we  know  its  waters  are  healthful  and  fertilizing.  In 
this,  as  in  every  other  instance,  we  should  judge  of  the  system 
l)y  its  fruit.  But  this  very  secrecy  is  attended  with  good.  It 
keeps  alive  that  interest,  the  want  of  which  was  so  much  felt  in 
the  old  Temperance  Societies. 

It  oilers  a  great  rallying  point  to  our  best  energies.  Purity  in 
our  affections,  fidelity  in  our  engagements,  uprightness  in  our 
actions,  and  love  to  our  race,  are  inscribed  upon  our  banners; 
and  the  true  Son  of  Temperance  carries  them  with  him  in  every 
department  of  private,  domestic,  and  social  life,  as  the  embla- 
zonry of  his  principles.    We  profess  nothing  that  patiiolism  does 


INTEMPERANCE. 


201 


not  approve  ;  nothing  tli.it  pliilanthiopy  does  not  chciisli ;  notli- 
ing  that  the  purest  rehgion  docs  not  sanction.  We  make  no 
ofTerings  to  avarice  ;  erect  no  aUars  to  ambition.  Our  only  end 
and  aim  is  to  do  good  to  our  race,  to  redeem  our  country  from 
the  bondage  of  vice,  to  pinify  our  pul)lic  sentiment,  and  to 
secure  to  the  people  of  this  great  commonwealth  that  moral 
freedom  which  brings  its  charter  from  Heaven. 

And  yet,  there  are  thousands  whose  piety  we  do  not  riuestion, 
who  stand  aloof  from  this  allUiation ;  and,  as  far  as  example  can 
go,  obstruct  its  progress,  and  lessen  its  means  of  usefulness. 
Christians  !  beware  that  you  be  not  found  fighting  on  the  side 
of  evil.  Exauune  the  ground  on  which  you  stand.  You  are 
bound,  by  your  allegiance  to  youi  great  leader  to  be  ready  for 
every  good  work.  If  you  love  your  countr}'^  we  offer  to  you  a 
field  for  patriotic  labors  ;  if  you  delight  in  deeds  of  philanthropy^ 
the  sufferings  of  men,  the  griefs,  sorrows,  and  bereavements  of 
helpless  women  and  unollending  orphans,  call  for  your  aid.  If 
you  love  your  God,  we  oiler  to  you  an  enterprise  we  believe  He 
will  own  and  bless.  Delay,  then,  no  longer,  but  give  us  your 
hearty  co-operation. 

We  call  upon  you  to  do  battle  for  your  country.  It  is  inva- 
ded by  an  unrelenting  foe  that  spares  not  the  young  man  in  his 
strength,  nor  the  old  man  in  his  weakness.  Arouse  yourselves 
to  oppose  his  further  ravages.  And  should  you  conquer,  though 
no  proud  monument  may  be  reared  on  cartii  to  perpetuate  your 
name,  no  fading  lauicl  shall  encircle  your  brow,  yet  you  will 
hear  that  which  is  above  the  praise  or  worship  of  men — the  ap- 
plause of  an  approving  conscience;  and  when  the  trampling  of 
death's  chariot  steeds  is  heard  at  thy  door,  thou  canst  look  back 
without  regret,  without  self-reproach,  upon  a  well  spent  life, 
and  hear  the  voice  of  thy  God  calling  thee  up  to  that  reward 
which  awaits  thee  in  Heaven. 


^    I 


if 


LOOK  NOT  UPON  THE  WINE. 

BT    E.    F.    ELLET. 

Look  not  upon  the  wine — 0  thoughtless  one  ! 

While  you  have  gifts  that  it  may  steal  away : 
Youth,  grace,  and  wit  and  genius,  now  your  own, 

Are  all  too  precious  for  the  spoiler's  prey. 

Look  not  upon  the  wine !    Unto  your  mind 

Were  given  hroad  eagle  wings  to  sweep  the  sky; 

Ah !  do  not  to  the  dust  its  pinions  bind, 

While  those  of  meaner  birth  may  soar  on  high. 


Look  not  upon  the  wine !  a  garden  rare, 
A  treasury  of  wealth  untold,  your  heart; 

Crush  not  the  flowers  that  l)loom  so  lovely  there ; 
Dim  not  the  gems  that  mock  the  crowns  of  art. 


LOOK  NOT  UPON  THE  WINE. 

The  love  of  kindred,  and  the  joy  of  friends 
Aronnil  you  cVmg — us  to  the  oak  the  vine ; 

To  every  circh^,  hg-ht  your  presence  kmds — 
Oh,  look  not  on  the  soul-destroying  wine ! 

Leave  to  the  dull,  th'  ignol)le,  and  the  slave, 
A  joy  so  base — a  strife  vnth  such  a  foe — 

Whom  to  o'erconie  no  honor  brings  the  brave — 
To  fall  by  whom  were  triple  shame  and  woe. 

Look  not  upon  the  wine  !  heed  not  the  spell ! 

Yourself,  so  noble  and  so  gifted,  spare ; 
Think  of  the  friends  who  love  you  passing  well; 

Think  of  your  plighted  ^/romise,  and  forbear  I 


208 


ill 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECHER, 


n 


Was  born  at  Xew  Ilavcn,  Conn.,  Soptcnibor  12,  1775.     His 
father  David  BihtIkt,  a  blacksmith,  is  supposed  (o  have  descend- 
ed froir-  one  of  the  four  Bcechers  who  were  among'  tlie  one 
hundred  and  twenty-nine  proprietors  of  the  town  of  N.  Haven 
in  1(j8').    His  mother  was  Catharine  Lyman  of  Middh^fiekl,  and 
died  in    hild-bed  with  Lyman  her  first  and  only  child.     On  her 
death-bed  she  bequeathed  tlie  feeble  infant  to  h"r  sister,  the  wife 
of  Lot  Benton,  a  farmer  of  North  Guilford,  who  was  childless. 
The  infant  when  received  l>v  the  foster-parents  was  extremely 
feeble,  and  said  to  weigh  only  three  pounds — according  to  the 
institutions  of  Lyourgus  he  should  have  been  thrown  into  the 
Ai>othetae,  and  thus  f'nally  disposer'  of;  but  as  he  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  born  in  New  England  in  christian  times,  he  was 
allowed  to  try  his  chance,  and  urew  up  to  be  capable  of  more 
physical  and  mental  vigor  and  endurance  than  falls  to  the  lot  of 
most  men.      This  development   of  a   naturally  feeble  system, 
was  prol)ably  owing  to  an  early  farming  education  on  a  hard 
soil,  and  in  the  cold  and  bracinsr  climate  of  New  England. 

It  soon  became  evident,  as  well  to  the  indulgent  foster-parents, 
as  to  the  young  man  himself,  that  f\\rming  was  not  to  be  his 
particular  vocation,  and  accoidingly  he  began  to  fit  for  college. 


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DR.    LYMAN    BEECIIER. 


205 


under  the  care  of  Rev.  Thomas  Bray,  minister  of  the  parisli, 
and  he  subsequently  graduated  at  Yale  College,  and  pursued  his 
theological  studies  at  the  same  place  under  the  care  of  Dr. 
Dwight,  for  whom,  even  down  to  the  latest  years  of  his  life,  he 
has  ever  cherished  an  admiring  and  venerative  attachment. 

His  ministerial  career  connnenced  at  East  Hampton,  Long 
Island,  where  he  was  ordained  in  September,  1798.  In  1810, 
he  received  a  call  from  the  first  Congregational  Church  in  Litch- 
field, Conn.,  with  which  he  continued  his  connection  till  March 
1826.  During  this  time  he  published  several  sermons,  and  assist- 
ed in  forming  various  benevolent  societies.  In  182(3,  he  received 
a  call  from  tin;  Hanover  street  Church,  Boston,  where  he  con- 
tinued six  years  and  a  half,  and  in  1832,  he  received  a  call  to 
the  Presidency  of  Lane  Seminary,  where  for  ten  years,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  duties  of  that  office,  he  performed  those  of  pastor,  in 
the  second  Presbyterian  Church  in  Cincinnati — the  latter  situation 
he  then  relinquished,  in  order  to  devote  himself  more  exclusively 
to  those  of  the  former,  which  lie  still  sustains. 

Such  is  a  brief  outline  of  his  life  thus  far.  His  history  as  con- 
nected with  the  Temperance  Reform  we  shall  give  more  fully, 
deriving  our  information  from  the  notes  of  a  speech  which  he 
made  in  London  at  the  time  of  the  World's  Convention,  in 
which  he  proposed  briefly  to  sketch  the  history  of  the  American 
Temperance  Reformation. 

Ill  the  earlier  periods  of  the  New  England  colonies  there  was 
no  general  prevalence  of  Intemperance. 

Our  prudent  and  careful  forefathers,  considering  aicohol  as  a 
good  servant  but  a  bad  master,  took  it  out  of  the  list  of  articles 
of  ordinary  lawful  traffic,  and  placed  it  for  safe  kee^jing  in  the 
hands  of  men  of  well  established  and  trusty  character,  by  whom 
all  such  sales  as  were  essential  were  conducted — drunkenness 


i". 


206 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECHER. 


was  a  crime  severely  punished  by  law,  and  the  instances  of  its 
occurrence  were  very  rare. 

Even  down  as  late  as  the  boyhood  of  the  subject  of  our 
sketch,  he  was  able  to  declare,  that  there  was  no  tippling  shop 
in  the  town  where  he  was  brought  up,  and  he  remeniliers  to 
luive  heard  of  but  one  drunkard.  But  in  the  course  of  twenty 
years  after,  it  had  become  an  article  of  ordinary  traffic,  and  what 
is  called  its  temperate  use  had  become  univeisal — on  land  and 
by  sea — on  farm  and  in  workshop,  as  well  as  in  circles  of  refi- 
ned hospitality  it  was  fearlessly  circulated,  and  the  church  and 
ministry  participated  withoflt  apprehension  or  remonstrance. 

At  all  ecclesiastical  meetings  the  pi{)e  and  the  brandy  bottle 
were  held  to  be  necessary  adjuvants  to  good  fellowship  and 
brotherly  love — and  in  the  pastor's  fireside  visitations,  the  good 
wife  was  never  wanting  in  this  form  of  hospitality.  Come  wife, 
"  here's  the  minister,  out  with  the  big  chair  and  the  brandy  bot- 
tle," used  to  be  a  familiar  saying  of  a  hospitable  old  household, 
of  whom  we  were  wont  to  hear  in  our  childhood  ;  nor  did  this 
collocation  so  astounding  in  our  days  sound  at  all  ina})propriate, 
or  savor  the  least  of  reproach  in  those  days — since  in  simple 
verity,  the  brandy  Ijottle  was  then  the  main  stay  of  good  cheer 
and  the  pledge  of  cordiality.  Wives,  mothers,  and  sisters  all 
drank  in  various  forms  of  the  genial  element,  and  the  glitter  of 
wine  glasses  and  decanters,  and  skill  in  compounding  and  setting 
forth  the  various  beverages  which  gave  vivacity  to  the  social 
hour,  formed  no  inconsiderable  part  of  the  pride  and  accom- 
plishment of  a  notable  housekeeper. 

It  is  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that  families  were  constantly 
scandalised  by  the  falling  of  one  or  another  of  their  members 
into  open  and  scandalous  intemperance — that  there  were  wives 
and  mothers  no  longer  fit  for  their  place  as  either — ministers 
unfit  for  the  sacred  desk,  and  that  the  most  brilliant  talent,  the 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECHER. 


207 


most  respectable  position,  the  most  sacied  ofllcc  offered  no  gua 
rantee  against  the  wiles  of  the  destroyer. 

The  writer  not  long  since  was  riding  with  a  venerable  old 
gentleman  through  one  of  the  neat  New  England  villages — 
stopping  at  a  point  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  principal 

street,  he  pointed  to  one  and  another  house — There  is  the  L 

house — he  died  a  drunkard, — there  lived  Mr.  B ,  he  died  a 

drunkard. — In  that  house  iliC  father  and  two  sons  died  drunk- 
ards, and  so  on  down  the  street,  until  it  seemed  to  the  lisi-^ner 
that  as  of  old  in  Egypt  the  destroyer  had  been  to  every  dwell- 
ing, and  that  there  was  "  not  a  house  where  there  was  not  one 
dead." 

This  state  of  things  very  early  attracted  the  attention  of  Dr. 
Beecher  after  he  was  settled  in  the  ministry. — About  this  time 
he  fell  in  with  a  treatise  by  Dr.  Rush  of  Philadelphia,  which 
strongly  affected  his  mind  and  led  him  to  think  more  earnestly 
on  the  subject  than  ever  before ;  he  fell  in  also  with  some 
accounts  of  societies  for  reform  of  morals  which  had  been  insti- 
tute'  in  London,  under  the  influence  of  which  he  preached  a 
sermon,  afterwards  published,  entitled,  a  "  Reform  in  Morals, 
necessary  and  practicable."  Under  the  influence  of  this  dis- 
course a  society  for  reform  in  morals,  generally,  was  formed  in 
his  parish,  which  had  relation  not  only  to  tempenmce  but  to  the 
observance  of  the  Sabbath,  and  other  matters  connected  with 
public  morals. 

Subsequently  the  same  subject  engaged  his  attention  after  his 
removal  to  Connecticut. — He  preached  the  same  sermon,  some- 
what enlarged,  before  a  meeting  in  New  Haven  at  a  time  when 
the  legislature  was  in  session,  strongly  urging  on  ministers  and 
magistrates  to  do  all  in  their  power  both  by  influence  and  by  the 
arm  of  law,  to  repress  the  growing  immoralities  of  the  times. 
Similar  appeals  from  the  pulpit  began  to  be  universally  made, 


208 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECHER. 


■    I 


I 


and  magistrates  wore  roused  to  greater  diligence  in  enforcing 
existing  laws  against  intemperance,  the  desecration  of  tlie  Sab- 
bath and  other  kindred  evils.  This  stringency  of  law  brought 
suddenly  down  on  the  connnunity,  produced  an  immediate  po- 
litical revolution. — Tlie  old  magistracy  were  universally  super- 
seded to  make  room  for  such  as  should  be  more  agreeable  to  pub- 
lic sentiment,  and  thus  oi"  course  old  laws  became  a  dead  letter. 
At  first  this  clumge  produced  a  general  consternation  among 
tlie  better  part  of  the  connmmity,  but  it  gradually  became  appa- 
rent to  leading  mindi  iliat  there  was  a  higher  and  surer  way  of 
leading  on  reform  than  by  the  arm  of  law,  and  that  weapons 
more  mighty  than  those  of  physical  force  yet  remained  in  their 
hands.  Dr.  Beecher  was  one  of  the  first  to  see  and  rejoice  in  this 
conviction,  and  the  writer  in  early  childhood  remembers  having 
often  heard  him  express  the  sentiment  that  this  political  change 
was  to  them  a  matter  of  congratulation,  because  it  had  opened 
before  them  a  more  excellent  way  of  eflbcting  their  purposes. 

About  this  time  the  General  Association  of  Connecticut  Min- 
isters appointed  a  committee  to  consider  the  subject  of  Intem- 
perance, and  the  means  of  its  suppression.  The  next  year,  in 
a  similar  meeting,  the  ^-onunittee  reported  that  Intemperance 
was  fast  increasing,  but  after  a  most  earnest  and  prayerful  atten- 
tion to  the  subject  they  had  not  been  able  to  sec  any  thing  that 
could  be  done  for  its  suppression. 

Dr.  Beecher  immediately  rose  and  ivioved  that  a  committee 
be  appointed  to  report  on  the  means  of  prevention  of  Intem- 
perance. The  motion  was  carried,  and  he  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Dutton  of  Guilford,  were  chosen  for  the  purpose.  Tliey  recom- 
mended— 

1st.  That  ardent  spirits  should  be  totally  discontinued  in  all 
ecclesiastical  meetings,  and  in  all  the  families  of  ministers  and 
meml)ers  of  churches. 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECHER. 


209 


cing 

Sab- 

ught 
po- 

ipcr- 

pul)- 

ettcr. 

mong 

appa- 

ay  of 

■apons 

I  their 

in  this 

laving 

:hango 

openetl 

oscs. 
Min- 
nt  em- 
car,  in 
crane  e 
attcn- 
(T  that 

imittco 
Inteni- 
r.  Mr. 
recom- 

in  all 
ns  and 


2tl.  That  it  sliould  no  h)iigor  be  given  as  an  adjuvant  of  labor 
by  land  or  by  sea. 

3d.  That  every  minister  from  his  pulpit  should  enlighten  his 
peoples  as  to  their  duties  in  this  respect,  and  urge  upon  them 
immediate  and  total  abstinence. 

This  course  couunended  itself  instantaneously  to  the  public 
mind,  and  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  carried  by  acclama- 
tion through  the  State — and  a  great  unprecedented  and  univer- 
sal reform  followed.     Not  only  ministers  but  civilians  in  every 
grade,   governors,  judges,   lawyers,  medical   men,   loudly  and 
openly  expressed  their  approbation  and  added  the  sanction  of 
their  example.     This  was  the  fust  marked  and  leading   Tem- 
perance Reform  in  America,  and  preceded  by  many  ye.irs  the 
formation  of   the  first  Temperance   Society  in   Massachusetts. 
From  tbat  time  the  use  of  ardent  spirits  ceased  entirely  from  all 
ecclesiastical  meetings — ceased  to  be  an  essential   part  of  hospi- 
tality, and  fell  into  general  disuse  in  all  well-regulated  and  pious 
families.     The  reform  being  one  of  public  sentiment  was  one 
which  no  caprices  of  political  demagogues  could  overthrow,  and 
its  beneficial  results  are  felt  to  this  day. 

About  this  time  was  conceived  the  plan  of  Dr.  Beecher's  six 
sermons  on  Intemperance.  A  painful  earnestness  was  given 
to  this  cfTort  by  certain  private  circumstances.  He  had  dis- 
covered, with  painful  surprise  that  two  leading  members  of  his 
Church,  to  whom  he  was  attached  by  strong  personal  friend- 
ship, had  unconsciously  to  themselves,  perhaps,  l)cen  beguiled 
by  the  insidious  tempter  to  the  very  verge  of  ruin — and  the 
preaching  of  these  sermons  was  a  warning  cry  which  he  lifted 
in  the  very  distress  and  earnestness  of  his  soul,  to  show  them  if 
possible,  tiieir  danger. 

These  sermons  have  been  successively  translated  into  Ger- 
man, French,  Swedish,  Danish,  and  lastly  into  the  Hottentot, 

14 


210 


DR.    LYMAN    BEECilER. 


Wlion  Professor  Stowc  was  in  London  in  183G,  there  was  there 
a  Hottentot  Chief  with  six  or  seven  of  his  trilie,  who  had  come 
over  with  Rev.  Dr.  Phihp,  Missionary  to  South  Africa.  Learn- 
ing that  a  son-in-law  of  Dr.  Beecher,  author  of  the  sermons  on 
Intemperance,  was  in  London  they  expressed  quite  an  anxiety 
to  see  hiiK.  and  in  an  interview  which  Professor  Stowe  had  with 
them,  expressed  their  great  deh'ght  and  edification  in  these  pub- 
h'cations  which  they  said  had  done  great  good  among  the  Hot- 
tentots. 

Dr.  Beecher,  at  the  age  of  74,  is  still  in  vigorous  health  and 
able  to  perform  all  his  duties  as  Professor,  and  preaches  as 
opportunity  ofTers  with  acceptance  and  success. 


APPEAL 


TO   THE 


ILABI 


©F    AMIilEE^A 


BY    REV.    A.    L.    STONE,    1>.    G.    W.    P. 


If  we  come  to  talk  with  you  for  awhile  soberly  and  earnestly y 
it  is  because  we  think  it  no  honor  to  you  to  offer  you  the  per- 
petual incense  of  "  small  talk,"  because  our  theme  demands 
soberness  and  earnestness  and  because — we  will  confess  it — 
we  greatly  desire  to  win  you  as  helpers  and  co-laborers  in  the 
good  cause  of  Temperance. 

In  this  insurrection  of  virtue  and  humanity  against  the  remorse- 
less despotism  of  appetite,  if  any  class  of  society  have  a  riffht 
to  feel  and  act  that  right  is  yours.  No  voice  can  accuse  you  of 
meddling  with  what  does  not  concern  you.  By  Ml  your  sorrow- 
ful experiences,  by  the  s  J  awful  tragedies  which  have  defiled 
and  violated  the  sancity  of  home — by  the  wail  of  want  and  w^oe 
from  many  a  desolate  hearth-stone,  you  are  justified  in  publish- 
ing your  league  against  the  destroyer.  While  these  gloomy 
annals  remain,  woman's  interest  in  the  progress  of  the  Temper- 
ance movement  none  can  question. 

In  every  relation  of  life  in  which  her  heart  has  been  linked 


i212 


APPEAL    TO    THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA. 


with  other  hearts,  she  has  been  stricken  by  the  bhght  wliich  the 
far-dying  pestilence  sheds  from  its  wings.  Of  all  ties  on  which 
the  wealth  of  her  nature  is  lavished,  not  one,  however  near, 
howevei  tender,  however  sacred  has  been  spared.  To  look  up- 
on one  in  whom  are  garnered  up  all  warm  affections  and  bright 
hopes,  and  behold  him  passing  under  the  shadow  of  that  bon- 
dage which  locks  heart  and  brain,  sense  and  soul,  in  its  iron 
mastery,  to  couple  the  name  of  Drundakd  with  one  so  dear, 
and  to  drag  out  a  weary  life,  heart-l)roken,  fast  linked  to  brutality 
and  shame,  this  is  no  common  sorrow.  Let  us  speak  of  these 
victims. 


THE     B  i:  T  R  O  T  H  E  D  . 

Hkre  many  a  maiden  wooed  and  won  and  plighting  her  troth 
to  the  youth  of  her  heart,  and  looking  forward  to  the  near  day 
when,  having  uttered  bridal  vows  they  shall  set  forth  together — 
"  Pilgrims  of  Life  " — to  her  eye  on  all  the  future  the  golden 
sunshine  lying — a  strong  arm,  a  faithful  heart  to  lean  upon — a 
manly  form  ever  by  her  side,  her  grace  and  defence — the  vigil- 
ance of  love  to  shield  her  froin  all  rough  minds — has  suddenly 
seen  the  vision  dissolve  before  the  dark  magic  of  the  bowl.  He 
to  whom  she  gave  the  priceless  jewel  of  a  maiden's  truth,  has 
found  a  deeper  charm  in  the  social  glass.  He  comes  to  her 
presence  flushed  with  wine — and,  from  his  forward  speech  and 
eager  eye  and  bold  approaches,  she  must  shrink  sad  and  trem- 
bling into  her  maidenly  reserve.  He  goes  from  her  presence  to 
wanton  with  her  name  amid  the  companions  of  bis  festive  hours. 
Soon  the  finger  of  public  regard  singles  ^  im  out  as  one  on  the 
road  to  ruin.  Stifling  the  anguish  of  he  heart,  she  ventures 
once  and  again  some  pleasant  reuionstrance.  He  lis  is,  prom- 
ises, lircaks  his  word,  grows  resentful,  and  plunges  deeper  into 


APPEAL    TO    THE    LADIKS    OF    AMERICA.       '2^'^i 

his  excesses.  Fiirewell  to  licr  lM%lit  dream.  That  image  so 
dear  she  must  lianisli  from  the  chamber  of  her  soul.  With  a 
sore  and  aching  heart  she  must  turn  from  that  picture  to  the 
future.  Long  must  it  hi*  bi'fore  tliat  deep  wound  in  her  breast 
sljidl  be  closed.  If  she  go  not  down  to  an  early  grave,  a  with- 
ered flower  nipt  by  an  untimely  frost,  the  scar  of  that  wound, 
a  painful  memory,  she  will  keep  to  her  latest  hour. 


THE     DAUGHTER. 

Look  again — here  is  another  sad  one  from  the  band  of  maid- 
ens. He  whom  she  calls  by  the  honored  name  of  Father,  is  no 
longer  one  to  be  reverenced.  She  cannot  go  and  ofTer  a  daugh- 
ter's caresses  to  one  reeking  with  the  fumes  of  the  revel.  In 
the  street  cries  of  derision  and  insult  follow  him,  every  one  of 
which  is  a  dagger  to  her  heart.  And  she  bears  his  name — she 
is  his  child — she  must  blush  for  him  and  wear  his  shame,  and 
walk  in  the  shadow  of  his  degradation — and  look  upon  hin: 
fi\llen  and  loathsome  as  he  is,  as  her  father  still.  She  has  none 
to  show  her  a  father's  love — none  to  enrich  her  with  a  father's 
Itlessing — none  to  breath  for  her  a  father's  prayer.  How  such 
a  grief  must  drink  up  the  spirit !  If  it  do  not  quite  kill,  it  must 
darken  all  the  coloring  of  life.    Another  foot-print  of  the  curse : 


THE      SISTER. 

And  here  is  one  with  a  sister's  faith,  who  knows  what  it  is  to 
hoard  a  brother's  name  and  fame.  She  sees  him  starting  in  the 
race  with  eagle  eye  and  lofty  aim  and  generous  resolves,  and 
her  ardent  soul  well  nigh  lehds  him  wings.  Ah,  what  joy  it 
shall  be  to  her  to  see  him  win  and  wear  the  wreath  of  honor — 
what  a  clinging  pride  shall  be  hers  in  his  successes!    On  the  altar 


I 


2U 


APPEAL    TO    THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA 


of  his  advnnccDieiit  she  woulil  think  it  a  small  thing  to  sacrifice 
hers.  In  his  nt'ctl  she  would  give  up  peace  and  hopt^  and  well 
ni<i^h  life  and  honor  to  siive  or  bless  him.  It  is  a  deep  well  of 
I  ruth  a!id  self-devotion,  a  sister's  heart.  But  in  that  brother's 
j)atli  the  snares  of  the  enchanter  arc  spread.  The  glow  of  the 
wine-cup  outshines  the  lustre  of  the  bright  distant  goal  he 
p.inted  for.  The  eagle  eye  is  soon  dinuned — the  nerve  of  en- 
deavor is  palsied — the  ardor  of  pursuit — the  dream  of  fame — 
ilie  hope  and  the  purpose  of  eminent  usefulness — that  scheme 
of  a  life  the  world  should  feel,  are  all  quenched  in  the  fiery 
draught.  Droops  with  that  nobler  life  the  sister's  ardent  soul. 
Mow  can  she  bear  the  contrast  between  the  dream  and  the  real- 
ity !  How  can  she  look  upon  him  her  trust  and  hope  had  man- 
tled with  such  heroic  garniture,  a  poor  slave  of  sense — sunk  to  a 
level  with  the  brute!  She  cannot  lean  upon  his  arm — she 
cannot  hold  him  to  her  heart — she  cannot  point  him  out  with 
pride  amid  the  throng — she  can  only  weep  over  him  and 
pray.     There  is  bitterness  in  such  tears — agony  in  such  prayers. 


I 


THE     WIFE. 

Come  now  with  me  and  look  upon  a  yet  sadder  scene. 
Faintly  glow  the  dying  embers  upon  the  hearth  of  a  ruined 
cottage.  It  is  a  cold  winter  niglit  and  the  pitiless  blast  shakes 
the  rattling  casement  and  drives  in  through  many  a  crevice  the 
falling  snow.  A  feeble  light  struggles  against  the  gloom  of  the 
apartment.  By  the  light  plying  the  busy  needle  upon  a  tat- 
tered garment  sits  a  woman  shivering  in  the  bitter  frost.  Her 
face  is  pale  and  thin.  In  her  look  and  attitude  there  is  no  hope. 
Often  she  sighs  as  the  sharp  pangs  of  a  breaking  heart  rend  her 
bosom.  The  moan  of  hungry  children,  moaning  in  sleep, 
tomes  to  her  ear,  and  the  scalding  tears  overflow.     She  thiiilvs 


APPEAL    TO    THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA. 


21. 


of  the  tiino  when  she  was  a  hght-hea.  ;.ecl  girl — when  she  stood 
U|)  a  joyous  bride,  and  heard  t'.ie  promise  spoken,  to  love,  cherish 
and  protect  till  death  should  dissolve  the  tie — when,  in  their 
bright  s'-v,  the  first  glass,  the  little  cloiul  like  a  man's  hand  gave 
token  of  the  rising  storm, — when  the  first  unkind  word  was 
spoken,  the  first  pressure  of  want  felt,  the  first  shock  of  a 
drunken  husband  reeling  across  the  threshold  smote  her  heart. 
Sad  musings  are  thine,  lovely  wife,  as  thou  pliest  si  ill  the  needle 
by  the  dim  light  in  the  desolate  room,  the  winter  without  and 
within,  and  yet  again  loithin.  But  she  pauses  in  her  work.  A 
foot  is  on  the  step — a  hand  pushes  the  door  open.  Oh,  how 
unlike,  the  face,  the  form,  the  step,  the  voice,  the  salutation  to 
those  she  remembers  so  well !  And  she  is  chained  to  this 
^^  body  of  death.''^  He  has  a  right  to  call  her  wife.  He  may 
approach  her  and  she  cannot  fly.  He  may  silence  the  moaning 
childr(,>n  with  blows  and  curses  and  she  can  only  interpose  her 
frail  form.  And  there  is  no  release  for  her  till  death  come. 
More  than  widowed,  with  society  to  which  dreariest  solitude 
were  paradise — home,  that  dearest  word  of  earth's  dialect,  to  her 
another  name  for  all  wretchedness  and  no  appeal  save  to  the 
Chancery  of  Heaven,  no  rest  save  in  the  grave. 


THE   MOTHER. 

Look  once  more  into  a  mother's  heart.  Her  once  proud  boy 
is  a  slave  to  strong  drink.  How  had  she  dreamed  dreams  over 
his  cradle-slumbers !  How  had  she  se^.-n  a  radiant  future  mirror 
in  his  bright  young  eye.  What  a  comfort  should  it  be  to  her 
old  heart  to  look  out  from  the  retreat  of  age  upon  his  high  and 
honorable  path.  What  music  to  her  ear  to  hear  the  world's 
voices  speaking  his  name  with  honest  praises.  What  a  welcome 
should  she  keep  for  him  coming  from  his  elevated  sphere  of 


1 


•210 


APPEAL    TO    T  n  K    L  A  I)  I  I',  S    O  I'    A  M  R  R  I  f  A  , 


I      11 


iliity  to  sit  wilh  his  honors  hko  ii  child  at  his  imoIIkt's  feet. 
I)csci'ii(lin;^r  iiiio  ||ie  vale,  how  should  shu  h'Jin  upon  his  In'arf, 
his  arm,  for  slirngih  and  cheer.  lie  lives,  hut  noihing  of  all 
this  is  ever  to  he.  lie  is  yet  in  his  earhest  manhood,  hut  all 
hfe's  freshness  is  gone.  In  riotous  livinj^  the  glory  and  heauiy 
of  his  youth  are  consmned.  Filial  reverence  is  dead  within 
him.  To  the  counsels  of  her  who  hore  him,  he  gives  hack 
sullen  looks — hiasphemies — perhaps  a  hlow.  Oh,  h;id  he  died 
years  ago  in  his  young  innocence,  hefore  any  of  this  history 
had  passed  upon  him,  leaving  only  the  memory  of  his  child- 
hood hehind  him,  it  had  heen  a  small  grief  compared  with  this 
living  ailliction.  Those  gray  hairs  shall  be  brought  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave. 

And  not  one  of  these  scenes  is  a  fancy  sketch.  Every  one 
has  had  its  original  in  fact.  You  have  met  them  all  in  real 
life.  Name  and  dates  you  can  supply.  And  they  have  not 
been  solitary  histories.  Many  times  over  have  they  been  en- 
acted. These  mourning  voices  of  mothers,  and  wives,  and 
daughters,  and  sisters,  and  betrothed  maidens  have  heen  lifted 
up,  a  great  chorus,  sounding  through  the  land  these  many  gen- 
erations. Oh,  you  are  interc^sted  in  this  matter;  you  have  a 
right  to  speak  and  act.  The  sorrowful  wastes  in  your  manifold 
relations  made  desert,  by  the  scoiu'gc  of  Intemperance,  summon 
you  to  link  your  hearts  and  hands  together  around  your  house- 
hold shrines  and  keep  them  pure. 

And  now  will  you  bear  with  us  a  little  longer,  while  we  tell 
you  what  we  would  have  you  do. 

First  of  all — never  put  the  glass  to  your  own  lips.  We 
do  not  say  this  hecause  we  fear  you  will  so  far  forget  delicacy, 
refinement  and  womanhood,  as  to  fall  into  ebriety.  And  yet 
this  most  loathsome  spectacle  of  fallen  humanity  has  been  ex- 
hibited.    But  apart  from  this  issue ;  every  lady  who  takes  the 


APPFwVL    TO    THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA. 


217 


wino-glnss,  hnuls  all  the  charm  of  her  matnuMS,  all  the  graces 
of  her  mind,  and  nil  the  captivation  «,f  her  social  ((iialities  to 
give  currency  to  wine-drinking  in  (he  circle  in  which  she 
moves.  It  cannot  l)e  thought  a  iteasily  excess  to  copy  the  ex- 
ample of  a  refined  and  cultivated  woman.  What  young  man 
can  pronounce  the  habit  degrading,  or  brutalizing  when  thus 
vindicated  before  his  eyes  by  thos(^  whom  he  chielly  esteems 
and  admires?  An  association  with  the  glass  is  thus  created 
which  follows  it  every  where — Hinging  around  it  a  poetry,  a 
romance,  which  hide  all  its  deformity  and  wreath  it  ever  with 
flowers.  In  scenes  of  excess  where  woman  mingles  not,  her 
hand  still  graces  the  goblet,  and  endorses  the  revel.  From  such 
a  fatal  inlluence,  keep  your  example  we  entreat  you  forever 
guiltless. 

Never  put  the  glass  into  the  k.iND  of  a  young  man. 
You  know  not  how  terrible  shall  be  the  issue  of  that  one 
thoughtless  act.  He  has,  ere  he  met  you,  perhafjs,  felt  his 
danger.  He  has  been  compelled  to  confess  to  his  heart  the 
growing  power  of  a  habit  which  he  traces  back  to  some  such 
scene  as  this  in  which  he  stands  by  your  side.  On  the  brink 
of  the  abyss  he  has  started  back  and  sought  to  untwine  the 
chords  that  were  dragging  him  down.  He  is  struggling  like 
a  wrestler  with  his  appetite.  He  is  yet  weak  before  its  giant 
power.  If  he  yield  a  hair,  if  he  allow  it  the  least  vantage, 
it  will  re-assert  its  dominion,  he  is  its  slave  for  life.  He  enters 
the  circle  where  you  meet  him  with  his  best  resolves.  Tearful 
eyes  follow  him — tlie  agony  of  prayer  goes  with  him — for  other 
hearts  are  bound  up  in  him.  You  are  his  temptress  !  With 
pleasant  smiles  and  kind  words  you  reach  him  the  ruby  draught. 
How  can  he  resist  1  You  have  armed  his  old  enemy  against 
him.  If  he  hesitate,  some  half-reproachful  word,  some  new 
charm,  the  whispered  spell,  "  You  will  drink  with  me,"  ensures 


I 


218 


APPEAL  TO  THE  LADIES  OF  AMERICA. 


the  victory.     You  turn  froin  him  well  pleased  with  your  little 
triumph — the  confession  of  your  power.     Ah,  what  have  you 
done?     Outblazes  agu'm  the  flame  so  nearly  smothered.     The 
demon  of  appetite  within  him  takes  the  mastery  again — it  will 
he  sated — it  cries  vehemently,  "give,  give,  give" — it  will  have 
its  gratification,  in  the  face  of  broken  vows,  ruined  hopes,  wreck- 
ed fortimes,  lilighted  household  peace,  dishonor,  despair,  death, 
it  will  have  what  it  craves.    From  his  dying  chamber,  or  his  cell 
of  doom,  whither  turns  his  accusing  eye?     Back  to  that  form 
of  grace  and  beauty  that  stood  by  his  side  on  the  festal  eve — 
and  bade  him  pleilge  her  in  the  wine — back  to  you  Oh,  smiling 
maiden.  Oh,  honored  matron!     Had  you  dreamed  of  this  you 
would  sooner  have  cut  off  your  right  hand  than  offered  the  fatal 
lure.     And  you  cannot  know  that  all  this  may  not  follow  any 
sucli  thoughtless  act.     Will  you  venture  such  an  cwful  hazard  ? 
Were  it  not  much  for  you  to  feel  and  say,  when  such  histories 
are  recited,  "  /  have  not  helped  this  ruin"     Oh,  what  right 
have  you  to  be  strewing  the  path  to  a  dishonored  grave  with 
roses  and  gilding  it  with  smiles  1     Who  has  given  you  leave  to 
introduce  the  young  men  who  seek  your  society  into  paths, 
which,  if  they  follow  them,  lead   them  in  such  numbers  to  a 
miserable  end]     Take  the  resolution,  again  we  beseech  you, 
never,  never,  to  pour  the  wme  for  another  and  commend  it 
with  your  charms  to  his  lips.     Set  the  example  of  banishing 
from  the  sideboard,  the  service  of  glass.      Amid  the  elegant 
profusion  to  which  you  invite  your  guests,  let  not  the  sparkle 
of  the  wine  be  seen.     Purer  shall   be  the  sparkling   flow  of 
mirth  and  wit  that  take  their  inspiration  from  sparkling  water. 
Never  give  your  patronage  in  any  way  to  those  who  sell 
ardent  spirits  as  a  beverage.      If  tradesmen    dt^aling   in  tlie 
poison,  who  had  still  any  character  to  lose,  were  deserted  b}'^  all 
except  their  ti2)i)ling  customers,  they  could  not  hold  up  their 


APPEAL    TO    THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA. 


219 


heads  a  single  day.  But  while  they  can  point  to  ladies  of  stand- 
ing and  fashion  daily  crossing  their  thieshholds  to  satisfy  their 
domestic  necessities  from  their  shelves,  what  force  have  all  our 
arguments  with  them  to  prove  the  disgraceful  nature  of  the  traf- 
fic 1  T!iey  are  not  disgraced  !  Sec  what  company  they  keep — - 
see  who  endorse  their  respectability !  Let  the  ladies  of  our 
communities  resolve  never  to  give  a  ftirthing's  trade  to  a  grocer 
who  sells  rum,  whatever  inducement  he  may  oUer  in  the  cheap- 
ness and  excellence  of  his  wares — never  to  enter  a  confectioner^ s 
saloon  for  refreshment  where  intoxicating  drinks  may  be  ob- 
tained, never  of  free  choice  to  go  to  a  summer  "  watering-place  " 
where  a  bar  is  kept  and  these  strongholds  of  intemperance  are 
by  this  one  act  demolished. 

Put  forth  direct  efforts  to  rescue  the  captives  to  strong 
drink.  Here  is  a  mission  worthy  all  the  self-sacrificing  benevo- 
lence of  woman's  heart.  It  is  one  for  which  in  her  gentleness, 
her  true  delicacy,  her  incomparable  tact,  she  is  exactly  fitted. 
Speak  to  the  young  man  whom  you  see  leaning  to  the  vintage. 
You  will  know  what  to  say.  You  will  win  his  ear  without 
alarming  his  pride.  He  will  respond  to  you  without  taking 
oflence.  He  will  yield  to  you  as  a  favor,  as  a  personal  gratifi- 
cation, what  argument  and  reproaches  would  never  have  wrung 
from  him.  The  forfeiture  of  your  good  opinion  may  be  a  more 
prevailing  appeal  with  liim  than  any  loud-voiced  warning.  You 
will  have  the  unspeakable  satisfaction  of  saving  him. 

Go  to  the  fallen  one — the  poor  outcast — the  leprous  drunkard. 
Show  him  what  kindness  there  is  yet  felt  for  him.  Give  lo  him 
the  hand  he  never  hoped  to  see  extended  again  to  such  as  him, 
'OiWA  plead  with  him.  To  you  he  will  listen — your  ministrations 
will  melt  the  rime  about  his  heart.  Your  ver}"^  presence  will 
bring  healing.  He  will  feel  lifted  a  little  from  his  degradation 
by  such  transient  companionship.     The  memory  of  it  \v;ll  chas- 


220 


APPEAL    TO   THE    LADIES    OF    AMERICA. 


ten  liim — that  any  so  far  removed  from  him,  thought  of  liim 
enough  to  seek  him  for  his  good — that  they  did  not  fear  to  soil 
their  garments  by  approaching  him  on  their  errand  of  love. 
From  your  cheering  and  sympathizing  words  he  will  catch  the 
hope  of  redemption,  and 

"  Like  the  stained  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun, 
Grow  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon." 

Be  you  thus  "  Sisters  of  Charity  " — angels  of  mercy  to  the  sin- 
ning and  hopeless,  and  the  dark  places  of  guilt  and  woe  shall 
brighten  at  your  coming,  and  instead  of  accusations  from  dying 
lips,  there  shall  come  upon  you,  "  the  blessing  of  many  ready  to 
perish." 

But  some  of  you  are  far  in  advance  of  our  exhortation.  We 
hail  you.  Daughters  of  Temperance  as  true  yoke-fellows  in 
our  cause.  We  feel  stronger  and  more  sanguine  as  we  look 
upon  your  banded  array.  You  yourselves  are  stronger  for  your 
league.  You  are  far  more  likely  thus  to  accomplish  social  revo- 
lutions in  the  habits  Ave  deplore.  You  gird  the  timid  thus  with 
a  new  courage.  You  keep  alive  your  own  zeal,  faith  and  hope. 
You  surround  the  daughters  of  want,  the  stricken  and  the  temp- 
ted, with  a  cordon  of  Love. 

Who  shall  question  your  propriety  in  all  this  ?  Is  it  unfemin- 
ine  to  pity  the  sinful  and  the  suffering  ?  Is  it  unfeminine  to  be 
active  in  works  of  charity  1  Is  it  indelicate  to  do  by  associated 
action  some  great  goou,  you  must  fail  if  you  attempt  it  alone  ! 
I  yield  to  none  in  the  price  I  set  upon  true  womanly  modesty. 
I  know  the  rhyme  as  well  as  another — 

"  Look  up — there  is  a  small  bright  cloud 
Alone  amid  the  skies ! — 
So  high,  80  p  .^,  and  so  apart, 
A  woman's  glory  lies." 


APPEAL  TO  THE  LADIES  OF  AMERICA. 


221 


But  it  is  her  glory,  her  apostleship,  to  win  the  erring-,  bind  up 
the  broken  hearted,  "  lift  up  the  hands  that  hang  down  and  the 
feeble  knees  " — and  shed  peace  and  purity  as  flowers  do  frag- 
rance, all  around.  May  she  not  enter  into  covenant  with  her 
sisters  against  a  most  destructive  evil  eminently  social  in  its  cha- 
racter ?  Is  it  out  of  her  place  and  sphere,  unwomanly  and 
questionable  for  her  to  attend  and  act  in  reform  meetings  where 
none  but  those  of  her  own  sex  are  present, — while  it  is  just  the 
height  of  delicacy  and  propriety  for  her  to  enter  a  parlor  crowd- 
ed with  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  that  undress  which  is  strangely 
enough  called  full  dress,  and  dance  half  the  night  away  !  We 
beg  of  you  to  dismiss  the  thought  forever.  Closer  draw  your 
guardian  league — Fast  bound  in  this  holy  wedlock  be  you  the 
Brides  of  Temperance  !  On  our  side  we  have  already  the  stern 
severe  aspect  of  Truth,  the  testimonies  of  science,  the  warning 
utterances  of  experience,  the  hollow  tones  of  vmtimely  graves — 
it  is  yours  to  bring  in  the  warmth  of  the  affections — the  poetry 
of  woman's  smiles — the  eloquence  of  woman's  tears — "  the  un- 
bought  grace  of  life." 


THE   OLD   MAN'S    LAST    WISH, 

[FOUNDED    ON  TACT.] 
BY    MRS.    EMMA    C.    EMBURY. 

The  Psalmist's  span  of  life  had  past 

Full  twenty  years  or  more, 
And  still  the  old  man's  footsteps  tracked 

The  sands  on  time's  lone  shore 
While  Death's  dark  wave  impatient  swelled 

Those  footprints  to  sweep  o'er. 

Aye  more  than  ninety  years  had  shed 
Their  sunshine  and  their  shade, 

Since  first  upon  that  aged  head 
A  father's  hand  was  laid. 

And  now  not  one  was  left  of  all 
With  whom  his  childhood  played. 

The  memory  of  that  far  off  Past 

Had  faded  from  his  sight, 
The  mists  of  many  years  had  dimmed 

Life's  golden  morning  light, 
And  he  was  now  content  to  watch 

The  closing  shades  of  nigiit. 


THE    OLD    MAN'S    LAST    WISH. 

But  when  at  length  Death's  summon's  came, 

While  breath  was  ebbing  fast, 
Those  veiling  mists  were  rent  atwain. 

As  by  a  mighty  blast, 
And  once  again  the  old  man  lived 

In  that  long  hidden  Past. 

Once  more  he  saw  the  homestead  where 

His  youth  had  passed  away. 
The  trees  that  interlaced  above 

Its  roof  so  old  and  gray. 
The  sheltering  porch  whose  trellised  vines 

Gleamed  in  the  sunset  ray. 

And  strange  unto  his  fading  eyes 

The  present  quickly  grew, 
The  old  familiar  faces  near 

Now  wore  an  aspect  new. 
And  ever   on  his  sinking  heart 

A  gloom  their  coming  threw. 

"  Oh  take  me  home ! "  '  twas  thus  he  spake 

To  all  who  gathered  nigh, 
''•  Beneath  the  roof  where  I  was  born. 

There  would  I  choose  to  die — 
Then  take  me  home, — oh  take  me  home ! " 

'Twas  still  the  old  man's  cry. 


223 


For  memory's  voice  within  his  soul 

Sang  like  a  spirit-bird 
Until  the  tones  of  other  years 

Alone  his  cold  ear  heard, 


224 


THE    OLD   MAN'S    LAST    WISH. 


And  all  his  nature's  lime  sealed  dcptlis 
Were  by  that  music  stirred. 


I  < 


And  brighter  still,  and  brighter  grew 

These  visions  to  the  last, 
"  Oh  take  me  home  ! "  was  still  his  cry 

While  life  was  fleeting  fast, 
And  with  this  prayer  upon  his  lips 

The  weary  spirit  past. 

Whe.i  on  tlie  grave's  dark  verge  at  last 

The  time  worn  body  lies. 
And  visions  of  a  brighter  world 

Float  past  the  glazing  eyes. 
Oh  !  who  can  tell  what  shape  may  take 

Those  dreams  of  paradise  ? 

Still  to  the  struggling  spirit  clings 

The  heavy  weight  of  clay. 
It  hath  not  yet  put  on  its  wings 

To  soar  from  earth  away. 
What  marvel  if  its  visions  wear 

The  glory  of  youtli's  day. 
And  Life's  bright  morning  star  appears 

Like  Heaven's  first  golden  ray  1 


Ci 


It 


REV.    THOMAS    P.   HUNT, 


G.  w.  A.  or  PA. 


Rev.  Thomas  P.  Hunt,  was  born  in  Charlotte  County,  Vir- 
ginia, Dec.  3, 1794.  He  lost  his  father  when  about  three  years 
old.  A  violent  attack  of  hooping-cough,  accompanied  with 
much  fever,  during  his  infancy,  resulted  in  leaving  him  deform- 
ed in  body.  The  greater  part  of  his  youth  was  spent  in  a  sick 
room.  This  proved  a  rich  blessing ;  for  it  left  him  continually 
under  the  watchful  care  of  an  intelligent  and  prayerful  mother, 
to  whose  faithful  discharge  of  duty,  Mr.  Hunt  is  indebted  for 
all  that  he  values. 

He  graduated  at  Hampden  Sydney  College,  in  1813.  He 
spent  some  time  in  teaching.  Then  returned,  as  a  resident 
graduate  to  College.  He  afterwards  studied  theology  under  ihe 
care  of  the  Rev.  Drs.  Moses  Hoge  and  John  B.  Rice.  While 
under  the  care  of  Dr.  Rice,  he  promised  the  Doctor,  that  when 
licenced  to  preach,  he  would  use  all  proper  occasions  to  preach 
against  Intemperance,  which  at  that  time  was  making  fearful 
ravages.  This  promise  was  made  in  1822,  and  has  been  faith- 
fully kept.  Wiien  tlie  Temperance  Reformation  commenced 
it  found  Mr.   Hunt   laboring  for  its  object.     He   immediately 


220 


REV.    THOMAS    P.    HUNT,  G.  \V.  A. 


joined  the  Society.  He  was  licenced  to  preacli  by  llie  Preslt}  - 
tery  of  Hanover,  1824. — Settled  shortly  after  in  Brunswick-, 
Virginia.  In  1827  ho  emancipated  his  slaves,  and  voluntarily 
passed  from  affluence  to  poverty.  The  srane  year  he  was  called 
as  Pastor  to  the  capital  of  North  Carolina.  He  remained  there 
until  1830,  when  he  accepted  the  oiYcr  of  Agent  for  the  State 
Temperance  Society  of  North  Carolina.  During  his  lahors  in 
this  office  a  revival  of  religion  commenced  under  him  at  Wil- 
mington, North  Carolina.  Mr.  Hunt  remained  tht  c  until  1834. 
In  1833  he  '  iS  sent  as  .i  Delegate  to  the  General  Assembly  of 
the  Prcsb}' ierian  Church,  and  also  to  the  first  Temperance  Con- 
vention held  in  the  world.  He  left  Wilmington  on  an  agency 
for  Donaldson  Academy,  near  Faye'tcville,  North  Carolina.  He 
was  invited  to  visit  New- York;  his  labours  while  there  were 
greatly  blessed,  and  he  was  invited  to  become  lecturer  on  Tem- 
perance in  that  city.  He  remained  there  nearly  two  years. 
Then  w^nt  to  Philadelphia  on  this  same  business.  He  left  Phi- 
ladelphia in  1840,  for  Wyomiiig,  Pennsylvania,  where  he  still 
resides,  devoted  to  preaching,  building  up  schools,  and  lectiu'ing 
on  Temperance.  His  health  of  late  is  not  so  robust  as  formerly, 
when  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking  from  one  to  four  times  a 
day,  without  rest,  for  months  together.  He  originated  the  Cold 
Water  Army  among  the  children.  He  was  the  first  lecturer  in 
favor  of  Total  Abstinence,  and  his  child's  pledge  of  Total  Ab- 
stinence is  thought  to  be  the  first  generally  circulated  pledge  of 
the  kind.  He  early  assumed  the  ground  that  liquor-selling 
ought  to  be  highly  penal.  He  is  widely  known  as  "  The 
Drunkard's  Friend,"  and  the  Liquor-seller's  vexation.  He  mar- 
ried a  lady  of  his  native  State  in  1832.  Has  five  children,  all 
daughters  and  tetotallers. 


'rcshy- 

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on  Tem- 

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I  left  Plii- 

e  he  still 
lecturing 
formerly, 
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I  the  Cold 

lecturer  in 

Ixotal  Ab- 
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luor-selling 
as  "The 


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SOME    THOUGHTS 

ON     THE 

SUBJECT    OF    INTEMPERANCE. 

BY     REV.     H,     HASTINGS     WELD. 

He  will  be  acknowledged  one  of  the  chief  beiiofactors  of  his 
race,  who  shall  devise  and  submit  to  the  test  of  experience,  the 
best  and  most  effectual  bar  against  the  vice  of  Intemperance  in 
the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors.  Various  attempts  have  been 
made,  including,  it  would  seem,  every  possible  direction  of 
human  wisdom,  to  abate  the  evil.  Some  plans  contemplate 
prevention  only,  by  guarding  against  the  formation  of  the  habit. 
Others  attempt  the  reformation  of  those  who  have  already  con- 
tracted the  mad  propensity.  And  in  our  own  day  the  plans  of 
philanthropists  embrace  both  the  cure  of  inebriates,  and  the 
diminution  of  the  class,  by  binding  youth,  and  even  infancy  to 
total  abstinence. 

It  has  been  charged  that  the  Americans  as  a  people  are  or 
h^ve  been  more  addicted  to  strong  drink  than  any  other.     We 


^J' 


223 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


are  not  disposed  to  concede  this ;  and  facts  and  statistics  had  we 
place  for  them  would,  we  are  sure  bear  us  out  in  the  denial. 
But  we  must  admit  that  there  is  sufficient  intemperajice  in  drink 
among  us  to  shock  the  most  apathetic,  and  to  call  for  earnest 
eflbrts  to  check  the  evil.  We  see  many  causes  for  this  unfortu- 
nate fact,  some  of  which  seem  to  be  almost  irremediable.  Fore- 
most among  these  is  the  universal  proneness  to  excitement, 
which  marks  our  commercial,  social,  and  political  lives. — This 
cannot  better  be  defined  than  by  borrowing  a  phrase  from  the 
vernacular— -a  phrase  undignified,  certainly,  but  as  certainly  ex- 
pressive. In  all  things  it  is  the  natural  habit  to  "  go  it  with  a 
rush  /  " 

Our  commercial  affairs  are  celebrated  for  crisis — occurrina 
almost  with  the  regularity  of  periodical  agues.  Whatever  is 
done  nuist  be  done  furiously,  or  the  doers  fancy  that  they  are 
doing  nothing.  No  matter  what  branch  of  trade,  what  pursuit 
or  speculation  happens  to  be  the  fashion,  men  madly  pursue  it, 
until  the  thing  is  overdone,  and  the  hobby  of  the  hour  is  found- 
ered and  ridden  to  death.  To-day  the  merchant  or  speculator 
counts  his  ideal  thousands  or  millions — to-morrow,  a  change  has 
come  over  his  dream,  and  he  is  in  the  depth  of  dejection  at  his 
absolute  poverty.  If  we  could  divest  ourselves  of  the  know- 
ledge of  the  actual  and  miserable  suffering  which  attends  these 
sudden  exaltations,  and  reverses  as  sudden ;  if  we  could  forget 
the  wife  reduced  from  idle  atlluence  to  humiliating  want — if  we 
could  shut  out  from  our  thoughts  the  children.,  who  feel  the  turn 
in  fortune's  wheel  the  more  keenly,  since  their  inxixperienced 
vanity  in  prosperity,  exposes  them  to  keen  insult  in  adversity  : — 
if  as  unconcerned  and  unfeeling  spectators  we  could  observe  all 
this,  no  spectacle  could  be  more  amusing.  The  magic  changes 
of  the  pantomime  are  nothing  to  it.  No  juggler's  feat  or  me- 
chanical  dexterity   can   produce    revolutions  so   instantaneous. 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


229 


lie  who  is  cynic  enough  to  sneer  at  misfortune,  and  to  find 
diversion  in  calamity,  need  desire  no  more  abundant  drolleries 
than  commercial  revidsions  furnish. 

Now,  what  is  the  effect  of  all  this,  in  the  connection  in  which 
we  are  considering  it — its  bearing  upon  individual  habits  ?  Any 
one  of  our  readers,  of  ordinary  opportunity  and  capacity  of 
observation  can  answer.  The  speculator  who  has  hazarded  his 
all,  and  more  than  all  upon  the  chances  of  trade — not  a  legiti- 
mate and  healthful,  but  capricious  and  reckless  enterprize — 
cannot  calmly  watch  his  operation,  or  patiently  wait  its  issue. 
The  thing  were  morally  impossible.  He  must  mine  and  coun- 
termine. To-day  he  must  fly  this  kite — to-morrow  stop  that 
gap — now  embrace  this  expedient,  and  now  rack  his  brain  and 
strain  his  credit  in  that  desperuie  shift.  To  pause  in  his  anxious 
struggle  were  to  ruin  all  at  once,  and  anticipate  the  crash  which 
in  most  cases  must  eventually  come.  Hope  and  Fear  alternately 
possess  him — and  neither  Hope  nor  Fear  has  "  signed  the  pledge." 
He  elevates  the  ecstacy  of  the  one,  and  palliates  the  terror  of 
the  other,  by  the  "grand  catholicon" — the  refuge  in  all  ex- 
tremes, whether  of  pain  or  pleasure.  And  when,  at  the  close 
of  the  business  hours  he  finds  that  three  o'clock  strikes  not  yet 
the  knell  of  his  commercial  credit,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  rids 
digestion,  tmd  calms  his  perturbed  spirits  in  the  intoxicating 
accompaniment  to  his  dinner.  The  rest  of  the  day,  and  far  into 
the  night  is  his  holiday.  He  seeks  repose  from  the  excitement? 
of  the  Exchange  in  the  excitement  of  convivial,  or  other  amuse- 
ment; and  makes  much  of  the  few  hours'  trice  between 
"bulls"  and  "bears,"  and  "buyers"  and  "holders." 

Inch  is  an  extreme  case.  Rut  all  men,  excei)t  a  very  few, 
wise  and  careful,  taught  by  experience,  or  saved  by  position, 
share  to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  the  dangerous  excitement 
of  "good  times,"  so  designated.     All  are  not  desperate.     All 


230 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


are  not  reckless.  Bu*,  the  reckless  and  the  desperate  cnrry  other 
men's  fortunes  with  them.  The  "  bold  game  "  of  the  few  in- 
fects many,  and  effects  all.  All  craf  'lartake  of  the  general 
prosperity  and  all  in  the  reverse.  L-oh  man  in  his  sphere, 
to  him  the  world,  feels  the  inflation  and  suffers  from  the  con- 
traction. In  such  a  scene  of  universal  excitement  most  men 
are  tempted,  and  many  submit  to  borrow  fictitious  strength  in 
the  struggle,  mock  joy  in  prosperity,  anf^  false  consolation  in 
adversity  from  the  dangerous  bowl.  The  mechanic  and  trades- 
man, the  laborer,  and  other  recipients  of  moderate  wages  or 
small  profits,  find  their  income  increased  in  prosperity,  and  then 
indulge  because  "  they  can  afford  it."  When  adversity  comes, 
and  labor  is  difficult  to  obtain,  or  their  receipts  are  diminished, 
or  money  actually  earned  is  lost  or  withheld  from  them,  the 
dangerous  comforter  is  appealed  to.  Thus  are  the  fluctuations 
of  trade  and  commerce  marked  in  our  mercurial  population 
by  the  tide  of  sensual  enjoyment — only  that  where  commerce 
has  its  flood  and  ebb,  the  strong  waters  have  two  floods — one 
in  the  hey-day  and  madness  of  success,  the  other  in  the  des- 
pondence of  reverses. 

Social  life  has  its  excitements  also ;  in  a  great  degree  depend- 
ent upon  trade  and  politics ;  but  still,  in  some  of  its  phases  dis- 
tinct. There  are  fashionable  follies  and  extravagances  in  dress, 
in  traveling,  and  in  the  furor  of  fashionable  amusements.  All 
these  sacrifice  their  victims.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  that  in  this 
country  no  determinate  and  fixed  rules  of  caste  or  station  pin 
men  down  to  one  sphere,  or  confine  him  forever  to  a  set  of  ac- 
rjuaintances.  But  all  advantages  may  be  abused,  and  all  good  in 
human  customs  has  some  evil  phaze.  Some  men  are  vulgar  and 
narrow  minded,  let  their  sphere  be  what  it  may.  Born  a  duke 
stich  a  man  would  be  the  commonest  of  the  common,  and 
(k'light  in  horse-races,  strong  libations,  pugilism,  rat-catching, 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


201 


dog-fancying  and  stale  bets.  Born  a  republican  he  may  be  no 
worse,  and  certainly  is  no  better.  Others  there  are,  who  by  neg- 
ligence or  the  misfortunes  of  their  parents  lose  the  advantages 
of  education.  Fortunate  speculation — or  perhaps  unwearied, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  praiseworthy  industry,  puts  one  of  these 
unfortunates  in  the  possession  of  money  which  he  knows  not 
how  to  spend — or  of  credit,  which  commands,  while  it  lasts, 
all  that  money  would  buy.  The  natural  tendency  to  "  furor  " 
will  not  suffer  him  to  keep  still.  He  makes  large  parties,  egged 
to  it  by  the  impatience  and  vanity  of  wife  and  daughters.  Hav- 
ing cauglit  his  guests  what  is  he  to  do  with  them  1  Money  will 
not  purchase  intellectual  amusements — nor  would  it  buy  guests 
who  could  appreciate  such,  if  it  were  offered.  But  money  will 
procure  all  the  various  compounds  under  which  the  tempter 
lurks.  If  he  can  do  nothing  else  with  his  guests,  he  can,  as  the 
Melesian  expressed  it,  "  eat  them  and  drink  them."  And  thus 
our  social  gatherings  come  in  too  many  cases  to  possess  that 
chief  interest  which  pertains  also  to  menageries  of  wild  beasts — 
feed-ng  tlie  animals.  Luxury  is  always  worse  and  more  con- 
temptible in  our  republic  than  any  where  else.  A  vast  field  is 
opened  by  free  institutions  for  the  development  and  enlarge- 
ment of  the  mind ;  but  when  men  are  content  to  use  these 
advantages  simply  for  pampering  the  body,  and  debasing  the 
intellect,  liberty  speedily  descends  to  licentiousness.  The  frugal 
beginner  grows  to  the  apparent  millionaire,  gorges  himself,  and 
explodes  ;  retiring  to  his  pristine  poverty,  without  the  prudence 
which  raised  him  from  want,  and  without  the  virtue  that  made 
his  poverty  honorable.  His  short-lived  wealth  has  served  only 
to  ruin  himself,  and  to  place  temptation  in  the  way  of  others. 

Another  social  evil  of  the  first  magnitude,  is  found  in  the 
fondness  which  exists  for  exciting  and  dangerous  auuisements. 
"  Public  oiiinion  "  has  been  called,  and  not  inaptly,  the  tyrant 


232 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


of  American  society.  But  its  most  cruel  tyranny  is  not  so  much 
in  what  it  forbids,  as  in  what  it  permits ;  it  is  not  so  grievous  an 
oppressor  in  its  restrictive,  as  in  its  latitudinarian  character.  It 
shields  nuiltitudcs  in  indulgences  which  are  ruinous  to  body  and 
soul.  And,  under  the  specious  alias  of  "  Fashion  "  it  imboklens 
men  in  vice,  and  shames  them  out  of  their  virtue ;  ridicules 
temperance  and  chastity ;  mocks  at  the  judgment  to  come,  and 
hurries  multitudes  unrebuked,  into  courses  at  which  an  unsophis- 
ticated mind,  standing  on  its  own  judgment  and  perceptions  of 
right  and  wrong,  would  shudder.  We  are  aware  that  this  is 
strong  language.  We  arc  not  unconversant  with  the  poetic 
beauties  of  the  drama.  We  have  been  moved  to  tears  by 
finished  rhetoric,  and  have  acknowledged  the  sublime  expres- 
sion of  music — the  more  unreservedly  perhaps  that  we  are  no 
critic.  We  have  been  familiar  with  such  expressions  and  works 
of  art  as  a  residence  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  Union  could 
afford.  With  the  newspaper  editors,  "  open  sesame;"  we  have 
been  made  familiar  with  the  public  haunts  of  the  American 
people ;  and  now  in  a  calmer  and  more  even  sphere  of  life — 
without  prc\judice,  but  with  knowledge,  we  can  conscientiously 
cite  the  fashionable  places  of  public  amusements  as  constant 
ministers  to  temptation.  Argument  is  unnecessary  upon  this 
subject  to  those  who  are  not  entranced  by  their  seductive  influ- 
ences. And  unfortunately  argument  is  wasted  upon  such  as 
are  supported  by  "  public  opinion  "  in  setting  the  warnings  of 
prudence  at  naught.  Theatres,  as  at  present  conducted,  have 
the  most  potent  evil  influence.  It  is  not  merely  in  the  maud- 
lin sentiment  which  makes  vice  tolerable — t),o  ribald  jest  which 
teaches  the  lad  of  sixteen  to  despise  his  inexperience  in  sin — 
the  disgraceful  levity  u})on  sacred  suljjects — the  sensual  exhibi- 
(ions  which  wear  away  the  admiration  of  virtue.  To  these  are 
to   be   added   the   excitement — the   fearful   excitcnient,   which 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE, 


233 


have 
niaud- 
which 

sin — 

xhibi- 
ise  are 

which 


drives  the  novice  to  other  factitious  sources  to  keep  up  the  plea- 
surable glow,  or  to  restore  jaded  'acuities.  Nor  is  the  hab'tu6 
of  the  theatre  exempt  from  danger — he  to  whom  the  scenes 
have  become  mere  canvass — who  has  eaten  oysters  with  Ham- 
let, smoked  a  cigar  with  King  Lear,  and  bowled  with  the  Moor 
Othello.  The  play  fails  to  exciie  him,  and,  he  must  therefore 
drink  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  it.  These  are  sad  facts, 
but  undeniable.  And  when  "  fashion "  sends  whole  commu- 
nities to  the  play-house,  as  is  sometimes,  though  now  more 
seldom  than  formerly  the  case,  whole  communities  pay  the 
penalty. 

Another  fashionable  evil  is  found  in  the  "  rush  "  to  watering 
places  and  other  summer  resorts.  For  valetudinarians — for  those 
also  who  desire  r'^treat  from  city  confinement,  it  is  both  proper 
and  praiseworthy  to  seek  the  country.  All  who  can  afford  it — 
and  more  can  than  do — should  re  invigorate  body  and  mind  by 
a  sight  of  the  green  fields,  or  of  the  wide  ocean,  and  a  breath 
of  the  fresh  air.  But  here  again  the  national  furor  has  begun 
the  mischief,  and  the  national  tyrant  has  perfected  it.  "  Public 
opinion"  sanctions  acts  and  courses  at  watering  places,  which, 
pursued  in  the  city,  would  ruin  a  merchant's  name  at  the  Bank, 
and  spoil  a  'tradesman's  character  with  his  customers;  and  a 
lawyer's  with  his  clients.  This  same  "  public  opinion "  is  a 
very  facile  and  chamelion  like  despot.  He  adopts  as  his  stand- 
ard the  rule  of  the  place.  He  was  the  author  of  the  very 
accommodating  maxim — "  When  at  Rome,  do  as  Romans  do." 
He  will  authorize  cards  and  wine  in  one  place,  and  condemn 
them  at  another — and  when  required  will  set  down  cards  in  his 
vocabulary  as  meaning  gaming  of  the  most  desperate  character, 
and  wine  as  including  all  products  of  the  worm  of  the  still,  at 
all  hours  and  in  any  quantities.  We  do  not  say  that  in  all 
watering  places  he  has  carried  things   to  this  lengtii ;  b' •  wo 


234 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


do  say  tliat  "public  opinion,"  othewise  called  "fashion,"  has 
txiught  many  frcHiuenteiis  of  summer  resorts,  to  wear  their  mo- 
rality and  even  their  religion  as  the  loosest  of  loose  garments. 
The  battery  dress,  worn  as  a  promenade  costume  in  Broadway 
or  Chestnut  Street,  would  not  asto::}ish  more,  than  the  moral 
habits  of  the  watering  place  would  astonish  the  city ,  To  be 
sure  there  are  individual  exceptions  to  this  remark  ;  bu'  can  any 
person  truly  say  that  at  the  watering  place  of  fashionable  resort, 
he  has  not  found  it  easier  to  excuse  omissions  of  duty,  and  to 
palliate  infractions  of  temperance,  than  at  home  1 

Enough  of  this  branch  of  our  suljject.  More  will  suggest 
itself  to  the  reader  than  we  care  to  write,  or  our  publishi^rs 
would  have  space  to  print.  The  third  great  cause  of  undue 
natural  excitement  is  found  in  the  subject  of  jjolitics.  Time 
was  that  this  word  politics  had  a  meaning,  and  designated  a  sci- 
ence which  it  was  worthy  of  the  minds  of  men  to  study.  Now 
it  principally  implies  the  inquiry  whether  a  village  post-master 
belongs  to  one  party  or  another ;  whether  city  streets  are  swept 
by  whig  brooms  or  democratic,  and  city  lamps  are  lighted  by 
democratic  tapers  or  whig  torches.  Follow  the  question  up  to 
the  highest  national  bureaux,  and  with  far  the  greater  number, 
the  popular  question  is  the  same  thing,  and  the  science  at  Wash- 
ington is  still  a  science  of  brooms.  Among  the  most  industrious 
politicians  are  those  who  have  something  to  gain  or  something 
to  lose.  These  go  into  the  contest  with  tiiC  spirit  of  covetous- 
uess  which  urges  the  commercial  speculator,  or  with  the  same 
kind  of  vanity  which  inspires  the  emulator  of  social  position. 
\nd  they  feel  the  same  love  of  excitement  which  Jiarries  the 
devotee  of  public  amusement.  To  the  great  body  of  the  people 
they  contrive  to  impart  something  of  the  same  spirit — to  some 
from  interest— some  from  love  of  excitement — others  from  de- 
sire of  nmuseiuent — and  to  all  fiom  the  contagious  character  of 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


235 


a  moral  epedeniic.  A  great  and  zealously  contested  political 
sljuggle  is  always  a  great  hinderance  to  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance. And.  when  we  '<ear  tl)at  an  election  in  any  town,  State, 
or  number  g'  States  has  "gone  oil"  without  interest"  we  are 
sure  that  it  has  passed  with  less  than  usual  detriment.  When 
tlie  newspapers  condole  with  each  other  that  "freemen  have 
been  culpably  remiss "  we  congratulate  ourselves  upon  the  fact 
that  they  have  avoided  another  and  more  dangerous  excitement 
than  that  of  the  hustings  proper. 

Such  are  some  of  the  causes  of  our  national  intemperance — 
be  that  intemperance  more  or  less — and  now  where  is  the 
remedy?  Clearly  there  is  not  a  full  and  suflicient  remedy  in 
any  thing  which  has  been  done  hitherto.  Temperance  Socie- 
ties of  all  varieties  of  organization,  from  simple  subscription  of 
pledges,  to  the  initiation  into  presumed  occult  associations  have 
not  provided  it.  When  the  tide  of  temptation  sweeps  a  com- 
munity, pledged  men  and  initiated  men,  temperance  auditors 
and  temperance  lecturers  even,  fall  or  throw  themselves  into  it, 
and  some  are  swept  away  past  recovery.  It  is  to  be  feared 
moreover  that  the  association  of  men  to  watch  each  other,  some- 
times begets  a  consciousness  which  provokes  to  rebellion  and 
maddens  to  descent.  There  is  an  excellent  physical  charity  in 
many  of  these  associations — excellent  as  far  as  it  goes ;  but  we 
are  inclined  to  fear,  from  some  circumstances  which  have  fallen 
under  our  observation,  that  there  is  a  lack  of  Christian 
Charity. 

Where,  we  repeat,  is  the  remedy?  "And  what,"  asks  an 
ardent  believer  in  human  perfectibility,  '-  what  would  you  sub- 
stitute for  the  present  temperance  organizations,  when  you  have 
swept  them  away?"  My  dear  sir,  we  would  not  sweep  them 
away.  As  soon  would  we  abrogate  and  abolish  ploughing  and 
harrowing  and  sowing,  because,  after   all,  unless  the  ground 


i 


23G 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


receive  the  sun  and  rain  from  above,  it  will  produce  nothinf^. 
Neither  would  we  substitute  any  thing  for  the  present  temper- 
ance organizations.  Put  we  would  define  their  proper  place — 
as  secondary  and  not  supreme — as  dependent  upon  the  law  of 
the  Gospel  of  Christ  and  second  to  Christian  union  and  fellow- 
ship. We  c  nld  •  .  :e  dependence  upon  God's  mercy  to  peni- 
tents, abovt  ■ij'.  pi^ncy  of  any  mere  human  resolutions  to 
reform,  and  tt.      ,..iui;  r'^formed. 

Pledges  not  to  make,  ^u/,  sell,  or  use  as  a  beverage  intoxi- 
cating drinks,  will  not  abate  the  evils  of  commercial  speculation, 
or  cure  men  of  coveteousness,  which  is  adolatry.  But  there  are 
many  commands  and  maxims  in  the  Sacred  Book,  which  go  to 
the  root  of  the  evil.  "  Set  your  affection  on  things  above,  and 
not  on  things  on  the  earth."  Temperance  membership  does 
not  forbid  dangerous  amusements  and  participation  in  human 
follies.  But  God  commands  "  Thou  slialt  not  follow  a  multi- 
tude to  do  evil " — and  thus  the  tyrant,  "  Public  opinion,"  is 
effectually  denied  his  sovereignly.  There  are  even  more  com- 
prehensive precepts  than  the  above  :  "  Be  not  conformed  to  this 
world." — Nor,  again,  does  Temperance  as  it  is  too  often  advo- 
cated forbid  ambition — but  God's  Word  is  eloquent  in  its  warn- 
ings against  the  desire  to  be  seen  and  honored  of  men. 

Such  maxims  do  we  find  in  the  fountain  and  foundation  of  all 
law,  order,  and  government ;  the  Book  in  which  we  may  learn 
that  virtue  which  is  the  source  of  true  and  "  great  gain  "  in  this 
world,  and  the  assurance  of  happiness  in  another.  Its  teachings 
go  to  lay  the  basis  of  improvement.  Its  doctrines  are  not  those 
of  men.  It  concedes  nothing  to  human  pride — nothing  to  vain 
skepticism — nothing  to  mere  expediency.  And  we  are  fully 
persuaded  that  this  great  people  will  become  a  nation  of  tem- 
perate men  only  when  it  has  become  a  nation  of  Christian 
men.     Christ's  Church  is  the  great  and  only  efficient  Tern- 


SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  INTEMPERANCE. 


237 


IS 


in- 


ngs 


nn- 
tian 
em- 


perance  Association — Temperance  in  all  things — for  his  apos- 
Ues  reasoned  of  "  rigliteousness,  temperance  and  judgement  to 
come."  Without  depreciating  auxiliary  and  secondary  means, 
let  all  true  patriots  look  first  to  the  inculcation  of  christian 
KNOWLEDGE,  as  the  remedy  for  debasing  ignorance ;  to  christian 
CHARITY,  as  the  guide  in  our  judgement  of  our  fellows ;  and  to 
christian  humility,  as  the  grace  which  shall  enable  "  him  that 
standeth  to  take  heed  lest  he  fall." 


■f-^ij 


ROSEMARY    HILL. 

BT    MISS    ALICE    CAREY. 

'Twas  the  time  he  had  promised  to  meet  me, 

To  meet  me  on  Rosemary  Hill, 
And  I  said,  at  the  rise  of  the  eve-star, 

The  trust  he  will  haste  to  fulfill. 

Then  I  looked  to  the  elm-bordered  valley 
Where  the  moon-lighted  mist  softly  lay, 

But  I  saw  not  the  steps  of  my  lover 
Dividing  its  glory  away. 

The  eve-star  grew  broader  and  paler. 
The  night-dew  fell  heavy  and  chill, 

And  wings  ceased  to  beat  thro'  the  shadows, 
The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 


I  heard  not,  thro'  hoping  and  fearing. 
The  whip-poor-will's  magical  cry. 

Nor  saw  I  the  pale  constellations 

That  swept  the  blue  reach  of  the  sky. 


ROSEMARY    HILL. 


230 


But  fronting  despair  like  a  martyr, 

I  pled  with  my  heart  to  he  still, 
As  round  me  fell  darker  and  deeper, 

The  shadows  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

On  a  hough  where  the  red  leaves  were  clinging 
I  leaned  as  the  mid-night  grew  dumh, 

And  told  my  heart  over  and  over 
How  often  he  said  he  would  come. 

Hunting  in  the  dim  forest  of  Arnau, 

He  has  been  with  his  dogs  all  day  long, 

And  is  weary  with  winging  the  plover, 
Or  stayed  by  the  throstles  sweet  song. 

Then  I  heard  the  low  whining  of  Aldrich, 

Of  Aldrich  so  blind  and  so  old. 
With  sleek  hide  embrowned  like  the  lion's 

And  brinded  and  freckled  with  gold. 

How  the  pulse  of  despair  in  my  bosom 

Leapt  back  to  a  joyous  thrill 
As  I  went  down  to  meet  my  lost  lover, 

Down  softly  from  Rosemary  Hill. 


Nearer  seemed  the  low  whining  of  Aldrich, 
More  loudly  my  glad  bosom  beat, 

Till  I  presently  saw  by  the  moonlight 
A  newly-made  grave  at  my  feet. 


240 


HOSEMARY    HILL 


VVIuTf,  silently,  sorrowfully  drifting 
Away  from  love's  sheltering  ark, 

I  tore  from  my  forehead  the  lilies, 
And  trusted  my  hopes  to  the  dark. 

Then  took  I  the  passion-vine  softly. 
Which  grew  by  the  stone  at  the  head. 

And  when  the  grave's  length  I  had  measured 
I  knew  that  my  lover  was  dead. 

Seven  summers  the  sunshine  has  fallen 
Since  that  dreary  night-time  of  ill. 

But  my  heart  still  is  veiled  with  a  shadow, 
The  shadow  of  Rosemary  Hill. 

Friend,  who  art  my  simple  lay  reading, 
Wouldst  know  what  my  life  thus  o'ercasf? 

'Twas  the  mocker  that  bites  like  a  serpent, 
And  stings  like  an  adder  at  last. 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


BY    MRS.    L.    H      SiaoURNET. 


"  Care,  and  peril,  instead  of  joy, — 
Guilt  and  dread  shall  be  thine,  rash  boy. 
Lo !  thy  mantling  ciuilice  of  life 
Foameth  with  sorrow,  and  madness,  and  strife. 

It  is  well.     I  discern  a  tear  on  thy  cheek, — 
It  is  well-     Thou  art  hvmble,  and  silent,  and  meek. 
Now,  courage  again  !  and  with  peril  to  cope, 
Gird  thee  with  vigor,  and  i.°lm  thee  with  hope. 

1>!\RTIN  Farquhar  Tuppkr. 

A  GROUP  of  villagers  surroiinded  an  open  grave.  A  woman, 
holding  two  young  children  by  the  hand,  was  bowed  down  with 
grief.  There  seemed  to  be  no  other  immediate  mourners.  But 
many  an  eye  turned  on  them  with  sympathy,  and  more  than 
one  glistei    d  with  tears. 

In  a  smalJ,  rural  community,  every  death  is  felt  as  a  solemn 
thing,  and  in  some  measure,  a  general  loss.  The  circumstances 
that  attended  it,  are  enquired  into,  and  remembered ;  while  in 
cities,  the  frequent  hearse  scarce  gains  a  glance,  or  a  thought, 
from  the  passing  throng. 

On  this  oacasion  it  was  distinctly  known,  that  Mr.  Jones,  (lie 


242 


THE    WIDOW   AND    HER   SON. 


oarponfor  of  the  villag-e,  who  was  tliat  clay  buried,  had  led  a  re- 
proachloss  life,  and  that  his  death,  by  sudden  disease,  in  the 
prime  of  his  days,  would  be  an  unspeakable  loss  to  his  wife,  and 
little  ones.  Pitying  kindness  stirred  in  the  hearts  of  those  honest 
people,  and  whatever  service  their  limited  means  allowed,  wa'' 
promptly  rendered.  It  was  the  earnest  desire  of  the  widow,  to 
keep,  if  possible,  the  cottage  where  they  had  resided  since  their 
marriage  ;  and  which  was  the  more  dear,  from  having  been  built 
by  the  hands  of  her  husband.  They  respected  her  diligence 
and  prudence,  and  at  their  seasons  of  fruit-gathering  and  har- 
vest she  was  not  forgotten.  But  as  her  health,  which  had  been 
worn  down  by  watching  and  sorrow,  returned,  li«  r  energies  also 
were  quickened  to  labor,  that  she  might  Iring  up  her  children 
without  the  aid  of  charity :  and  her  efTorts  were  prospered. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  years,  it  was  thought  advisaljle  for  her 
daughter,  who  was  ingenious  with  the  needle,  to  go  to  a  neigh- 
boring town  and  obtain  instruction  in  the  trade  of  a  dressmaker. 
Richard,  v,  ho  was  two  years  younger,  remained  with  his  moth- 
er, attending  in  winter  the  village-school,  and  at  other  periods 
of  the  year,  finding  occasional  employment  among  the  farmers 
in  the  vicinity.  It  was  seen  by  all,  how  much  the  widow's 
heirt  was  bound  up  in  him,  and  how  she  was  always  devising 
means  for  his  improvement  and  happiness. 

But  as  Richard  grew  older,  he  iiked  the  society  of  idle  boys, 
and  it  was  feared  did  not  fully  appreciate,  or  repay  her  affection. 
}^e  was  known  to  be  addicted  to  his  own  way,  and  had  been  heard 
to  express  contempt  for  the  authority  of  women.  There  were 
rumors  of  his  having  frequented  places  where  licpiors  were  sold  ; 
yet  none  imagined  the  disobedience  and  disrespect  which  that 
lonely  cottage  sometimes  witnessed,  for  the  mother  complained 
only  to  her  God,  in  tlie  low  sigh  of  prayer.  She  was  not  able 
to  break  his  intimacy  with  evil  associates,  and,  ere  he  reached 


THE   WIDOW    AND   HER    SON. 


243 


5(1  a  re- 
in the 

ife,  ami 

e  honest 

fed,  wa'' 

ridow,  to 

nee  their 

een  built 

diligence 

and  har- 

had  been 

orgies  also 

r  children 

ered. 

ble  for  her 

fo  a  neigh- 
•essmakcr. 
his  nioth- 

ler  periods 

:he  farmers 

lie  widow's 

lys  devising 

|f  idle  boys, 
n-  affection, 
been  heard 
There  were 
were  sold ; 
I  which  that 
complained 
ras  not  able 
he  reached 


his  eighteenth  year,  had  too  miicli  reason  to  believe  him  a  par- 
taker in  their  vicv-js. 

It  was  supposed  that  she  was  unacquainted  with  his  conduct, 
because  she  spoke  not  of  it  to  others,  and  continued  to  treat  him 
with  tenderness.  But  deep  love,  though  sometimes  wiUing  to 
appear  blind,  is  quick-siglited  to  the  faults  of  its  oljject.  It  may 
keep  silence,  but  the  glance  of  discovery,  and  the  thrill  of  tor- 
ture, are  alike  electric. 

The  widowed  mother  had  hoped  much  from  the  return  of  her 
daughter,  and  the  aid  of  her  young,  cheerful  spirit,  in  rendering 
their  home  attractive.  Her  arrival,  in  full  possession  of  her 
trade,  with  the  approbation  of  her  employers,  gave  to  her  lone 
heart  a  joy  long  untasted.  Margaret  was  an  active  and  loving 
girl,  graceful  in  her  person,  and  faithful  to  every  duty.  Her 
industry  provided  new  comforts  for  the  cottage,  while  her  inno- 
cent gayety  enlivened  it. 

The  widowed  inofb.er  earnestly  besought  her  assistance,  in  sav- 
ing their  endangered  one  from  the  perils  that  surrounded  him ; 
and  her  sisterly  love  poured  itself  out  upon  his  heart,  in  a  full, 
warm  flood.  It  would  seem  that  he  caught  the  enthusiasm  of 
her  example  ;  for  he  returned  with  more  of  diligence  to  his 
former  lal)ors,  while  his  intervals  of  leisure  were  spent  at  home. 
When  his  mother  saw  him  seated  by  their  pleasant  little  hearth, 
sometimes  reading  to  Margaret,  while  she  plied  the  needle,  or 
occasionally  wmding  her  silks,  and  arranging  the  spools  in  her 
work-table,  their  young  voices  mingling  in  song,  or  laughter, 
she  felt  how  powerful  was  the  influence  of  a  good  sister,  and 
lifted  up  her  soul  in  praise  to  the  Rock  of  their  salvation.  Some- 
what more  of  filial  respect  and  observance  slie  might  hav(^  de- 
sired, but  was  content  that  her  own  claims  should  be  overlooked, 
might  he  only  be  rescued.  Months  fled,  and  he;  pallid  cheek 
had  already  resumed  the  tinge  of  a  long -forgotten  l:aj  '    ..  ss. 


-7'  ' 


244 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


One  day,  when  spring  made  the  earth  beautiful,  on  entering 
suddenly  Margaret's  little  chamber,  she  surprised  her  in  a  pas- 
sion of  tears. 

"  My  daughter !     My  dear  child  !  " 

"  Ob,  mother !     I  wish  you  had  not  come,  just  now." 

"  Tell  me,  are  you  sick'?  " 

"  No,  not  sick.     Only  my  heart  is  broken." 

"  Can  you  not  trust  me  with  your  trouble  1 " 

Long  and  bursting  sobs  followed,  with  stifled  attempts  at  ut- 
terance. 

"  Mothei-,  we  have  been  so  happy,  I  cannot  bear  to  destroy  it 
all.     Ricliard, — my  poor  brother." 

"  Speak  !  what  has  he  done  1  " 

Hiding  her  face  in  her  motlier's  bosom,  she  said  in  broken 
tones, — 

"  You  ought  to  know, — I  must  tell  you.  It  cannot  longer  be 
concealed  that  he  often  comes  home  late,  and  disguised  with 
liquor.  I  tried  to  shut  out  the  truth  from  myself.  Then  I  tried 
to  hide  it  from  others.     But  it  is  all  in  vain." 

"  Alas !  I  thought  he  was  changed,  that  your  blessed  hand 
had  saved  him.     Tell  me  what  you  have  discovered." 

"  I  would  fain  spare  you.  But  I  have  seen  enough,  for  weeks 
past,  to  destroy  my  peace.  Last  night,  you  had  retired  before 
he  came.  He  entered  with  a  reeling  step,  and  coarse,  hateful 
words.  I  strove  to  get  him  silently  to  his  bed,  lest  he  might 
disturb  you.  But  he  withstood  me.  His  fair  blue  eyes  were 
like  balls  of  fire ;  and  he  cursed  me,  till  I  fled  from  him." 

The  mother  clasped  her  closer  to  her  heart,  and  bathed  her 
brow  with  tears. 

"  Look  to  Him,  my  child,  who  ordereth  all  our  trials.  Night 
after  night,  have  I  spent  in  sleepless  prayer  for  the  poor,  sinful 
boy." 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


245 


enng 


pas- 


3  at  ul- 
isti-oy  it 

broken 

pnger  be 
ed  with 
I  tried 

led  hand 


lor 

id  before 
bateful 
[le  might 
^'os  were 

ki." 
Iitlied  her 

Night 
jor,  sinfixl 


"  Ah !  then  you  have  known  it  long.  Mother,  yoii  have 
been  too  indulgent.  You  should  warn  and  reprove  him,  and 
give  him  no  rest,  until  he  repent  and  forsake  his  sin." 

"  All  tbat  was  in  my  power  to  do,  has  been  faithfully  done. 
I  have  not  spared  him.  But  he  revolted.  He  despised  my 
woman's  voice,  my  motherly  love.  I  forbore  to  distress  your 
young  beart  with  all  that  I  might  have  revealed.  I  feared  to 
damp  the  courage  on  which  my  hopes  were  built.  I  told  you 
freely  of  his  danger  from  evil  associates,  but  relied  on  the  power 
of  your  love  too  much,  too  fondly.  Yet  you  have  been  an 
angel  to  him,  and  to  me." 

"  Mother,  I  will  myself  rebuke  him.  I  will  speak  for  you, 
and  for  God." 

"  Margaret,  may  He  give  you  Avisdom.  Should  your  brother's 
mind  not  be  in  a  right  state,  j  our  words  will  be  hurled  back 
upon  your  own  head.  Sometimes,  I  have  poured  out  my  whole 
soul  in  reproof.  Then,  again,  I  have  refrained,  to  sa\  e  him 
from  the  sin  of  cursing  his  mother.  Yet  speak  to  him,  Marga- 
ret, if  you  will.  May  God  give  power  to  your  words.  Still,  I 
cannot  but  fear  lest  you  take  a  wrong  time,  when  his  feelings 
are  inflamed  with  intemperance." 

"  Be  at  peace,  in  this,  dearest  mother.  I  will  not  broach 
such  a  subject  but  at  a  fitting  time." 

The  mother  had  little  hope  from  the  intended  appeal  of  her 
daugliter.  Indeed,  she  shrank  from  it,  for  she  best  knew  the 
temper  of  her  son.  Yet  she  humbled  herself  to  go  to  the 
vender  of  liquor,  and  beseech  him  to  withhold  it  from  hiur,  in 
the  name  of  the  widow's  God.  Margaret  drooped  in  secret, 
but  spoke  cheering  words  to  her  ])rother,  widi  an  unclouded 
brow.  One  day,  he  had  aided  her  in  some  slight  operation,  in 
the  garden,  with  unwonted  kindness.     She  fancied  that  she  saw 


l! 

■  ' 

1 

1 

1 

i 

1 

1 

246 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


;i 


iti  his  eye,  the  reviving  spirit  of  better  days.  Throwing  her 
arni  aroinid  liis  neck,  she  said, — 

"  Brother  Richard,  you  can  be  so  good.  How  I  wish  it  were 
always  thus." 

"  Always  to  be  working  under  your  orders,  I  suppose.  No 
doubt,  that  would  be  quite  pleasing.  All  you  women  like  to 
rule,  when  you  can." 

"  Not  to  rule,  but  to  see  those  we  love  rule  themselves." 

"  Is  tliat  what  you  tell  Will  Paimer,  when  he  sits  here  so 
long,  watching  you  like  a  cat,  and  looking  as  wise  as  an  owH 
If  you  should  chance  to  marry  him,  you'd  tell  him  another  tale, 
ami  try  always  to  rule  him  yourself.  Now,  Miss  Mag  Jo'ies, 
It'll  the  whole  truth :  why  is  that  same  deacon  that  is  to  l.«', 
lure  forever?" 

"  I  will  not  hide  any  thing  from  you,  dear  Richard,  wlio  ^.dve 
known  my  thouglits  from  my  cradle.  We  shall  probably  be 
married  in  the  autunni,  and  then" — 

"And  then,  what?" 

"  Oh,  brother !  then,  I  Is;  ,m'  you  will  do  all  in  your  pov/er  to 
comfort  mother,  when  I  shall  xn  i  '-n-  \\>^re.^^ 

"'Not  be  here!  Lo  you  k\p<*it  ic  move  to  Oregor,  fu-  sit 
on  the  top  of  the  Andes,  with  this  remarkable  sweetheart  of 
yours  1 " 

"  We  shall  not  leave  this  village.  But  when  I  have  a  new 
home  and  other  duties,  I  hope  you  will  be  daughter  and  son 
both,  to  our  poor  mother.  Remember  how  hard  she  has  worked 
to  bring  us  up,  how  she  has  watched  us  in  sickness,  and  prayed 
for  us,  at  all  times.  Her  only  earthly  hope  is  in  us ;  especially 
m  you,  her  son." 

••  Margaret,  what  are  you  driving  at?  " 

"  Oh,  Richard !  forsake  those  evil  associates,  who  are  leading 
J   lU  tc  ruin.     Break  uH'  the  habit  of  drinking,  that  debases,  and 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


247 


destroys  you.  For  the  sake  of  our  widowed  mother,  for  the 
sake  of  our  father's  unblemished  memory,  for  the  sake  of  the 
sister,  who  loves  you  as  her  own  soul  " — 

"  For  the  sake  of  what  else  1  Bill  Palmer,  I  presume.  Is 
there  never  to  be  an  end  to  these  women's  tongues  ?  So  it  has 
been  these  three  years ;  preach,  preach,  till  I  have  prayed  for 
deafness.  I  have  had  no  rest,  for  Mrs.  Jones's  eternal  sermons ; 
and  now  you  must  needs  come  to  help  her,  with  your  everlast- 
ing gab." 

The  young  girl  heeded  not  that  his  eyes  flashed,  and  that  the 
veins  of  his  neck  were  swollen  and  sanguine.  Throwing  off 
the  timidity  of  her  nature,  she  spoke  slowly,  and  with  soleirm 
emphasis,  as  one  inspired. 

"  If  you  have  no  pity  on  the  mother  who  bore  you,  no  tender 
memory  of  the  father  who  laid  his  hands  on  your  head,  when 
they  were  cold  in  death  ;  no  regard  for  an  honest,  lionorable 
reputation ;  at  least,  have  some  pity  on  your  own  undying  soul , 
some  fear  of  the  bar  of  judgment,  of  the  worm  that  never  dies, 
and  seek  mercy  while  there  is  hope,  and  repent,  that  you  may 
be  forgiven." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  I'll  not  bear  this  from  you.  I  know  some- 
thing to  make  fine  words  out  of,  too.  Your  mother  has  been 
slandering  me,  prohibiting  the  traffic  in  liquor,  I  urn'  land; 
for  aught  I  know,  you  were  her  spokesman.  Wise  w  en!  as 
if  there  was  but  one  place  on  this  round  world,  wher(>  n  is  sold. 
Hypocrites  you  are,  both  of  you !  making  boast  of  .  our  love, 
and  puljlishing  evil  against  me.  Look  out,  how  u  drive  a 
man  to  desperation.  If  you  see  m)""  face  no  more,  u.tnk  your- 
selves ! " 

And  with  a  honrse  imprecation,  he  threw  himself  over  the 
garden  fence,  and  disappeared.  That  night  there  was  agoni- 
zing grief  in  the  pleasant  cottage,  tears,  and  listening  for  the  feet 


248 


THE    WIDOW   AND    HER   SON. 


if* 


that  came  not.  Then,  were  days  of  vain  search,  and  harrow- 
ing anxiety,  closed  by  sleepless  watchings,  Alas !  for  the  poor 
mother's  heart!  What  had  the  boy  heen  left  to  do 7  what! 
Had  not  his  sister  been  too  severe  ?  Would  that  her  reproaches 
liad  been  less  sharp  to  his  sore  heart,  or  that  she  had  taken  a 
better  time,  when  he  might  have  been  more  patient.  Tims 
travailed  the  yearning  heart  of  the  mother,  with  the  old,  blind 
Eden-policy,  vain  excuse. 

Again  another  tide  of  struggling  emotion.  Would  he  but 
come,  even  as  he  had  so  often  done,  with  unequal  steps,  and 
muttered  threatenings.  Would  he  only  come,  that  the  love 
which  had  nursed  his  innocent  infancy,  might  once  more  look 
upon  his  face.  Then  swept  terrible  thoughts  over  the  mother's 
soul,  images  of  reckless  crime,  and  ghastly  suicide.  But  she 
gave  them  not  utterance  to  the  daughter  who  sate  beside  her, 
working  and  weeping.  For  she  said,  the  burden  of  the  child 
is  alreat;}'  greater  than  she  can  bear. 

Yet  he,  who  was  the  cause  of  all  this  agony,  hastened  night 
and  day  from  the  quiet  apot  of  his  birth,  towards  the  sea-coast, 
boiling  with  passion.  He  conceived  himself  to  have  been 
utterly  disgi'aced  by  the  prohibition  of  his  motiicr  to  the  seller 
of  liquors,  not  feeling  tliat  the  disgrace  was  in  the  sin  that  had 
made  such  prohibition  necessary.  He  wildly  counted  those  who 
most  loved  him,  as  conspirators  against  his  peace ;  for  vice,  to 
its  other  distortions  of  soul,  adds  the  insanity  of  mistaking  the 
best  friends  for  enemies. 

Full  of  vengeful  purpose,  and  knowing  that  his  mother  had 
King  dreaded  lest  he  should  choose  the  life  of  a  sailor,  he  hurried 
to  a  seaport,  and  shipped  on  a  whaling  voyage.  As  the  vessel 
was  to  sail  inunediately,  to  be  absent  more  than  three  years, 
and  he  entered  under  a  feigned  name,  it  gave  him  pleasure  that 
he  should  thus  baflle  pursuit  or  discovery. 


il     r 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER   SON. 


249 


"  Let  them  trace  me,  if  they  can,"  said  lie  ;  "  and  when  I  get 
back,  I'll  sail  again,  without  seeing  'hem.  Tiiey  may  preach 
now  as  long  as  they  please,  but  I'll  be  out  of  their  hearing." 

Thus,  in  the  madness  of  a  sinful  heart,  he  threw  himself 
upon  the  great  deep,  without  a  thought  of  kindness  towards 
man,  or  a  prayer  to  God.  Yet  he  was  ill-prepared  for  the  lot 
of  hardship  he  had  chosen, — the  coarse  fare,  the  iron  sway,  the 
long  night-watch,  and  the  slippery  shroud  in  the  tempest.  To 
drown  misery  in  the  daily  allowance  of  lir[uor,  was  his  princi- 
pal resource,  when  at  first  the  sea-sickness  seized  him,  and 
afterwards,  when  his  sea-sins  sank  him  still  lower  in  brutality. 
Vile  language,  l)ad  songs,  and  frequent  broils  were  the  enter- 
tainments of  the  forecastle  ;  while  the  toilsome  duties  of  a  raw 
sailor  before  the  mast,  were  imbittered.  by  the  caprices  of  the 
captain,  himself  a  votary  of  intemperance.  A  ;vl:(ingcr  shadow- 
ing forth  of  the  intercourse  of  condemned  spirits  could  scarcely 
be  given,  than  tlie  fierce  crew^  of  that  rude  vessel  exhiiiited,  shut 
out,  for  years,  from  all  humanizing  and  holy  influences.  Yet 
strange  to  say,  the  recreant,  who  had  abused  the  indulgences  of 
home  and  the  supplications  of  love,  derived  some  benefit  where 
it  could  least  have  been  anticipated.  Indolence  was  exchanged 
for  regular  employment,  and  he  learned  the  new  and  hard  les- 
son of  submission  to  authority ;  and  whenever  a  lawless  spirit  is 
enforced  to  industry,  and  the  subjugation  of  its  will,  it  must  be 
in  some  degree  a  gainer.  So,  with  the  inconsistency  of  our 
fallen  nature,  the  soul  that  bad  spurned  the  sunbeam,  and  hard 
ened  under  the  shower,  was  arrested  by  the  thunderbolt,  and 
taught  by  the  lightning. 

In  the  strong  excitement  and  peril  of  conflict  with  the  huge 
monarch  of  the  deep,  he  gained  some  elevation,  by  a  temporary 
forgetfulness  of  self ;  for  that  one  image,  long  magnified  and 
dilated,  had  closed  the  mind  to  all  ennobling  prospects,  and 


!i 


250 


THE   WIDOW   AND    HER   SON. 


f^^    i 


generous  resolves.  The  tlead-lights  of  the  soul  had  been  so 
long  shut  in,  that  the  first  ray  that  streamed  through  them 
seemed  new  and  wonderful. 

Accident  and  ill-fortune  protracted  their  voyage,  several 
months  beyond  its  intended  limits.  While  pursuing  a  home- 
ward course,  some  seasons  of  serious  reflection,  when  not  under 
the  sway  of  intemperance,  came  over  Richard  Jones.  For  he 
was  not  utterly  hardened  ;  and  prayers  continually  rose  up  from 
his  forsaken  home,  that,  if  yet  in  the  land  of  the  living,  he 
might  repent,  and  find  hope.  Conscience,  at  times,  wrought 
powerfully,  so  that  he  dreaded  to  be  alone,  or  turned  as  a  refuge 
to  the  vile  revelry  of  conuadcs  whom  he  despised. 

Once,  as  he  paced  the  deck  in  his  midnight  watch,  while  the 
vessel  went  rusliing  onward  through  the  deep,  dark  sea,  solemn 
thoughts  settled  heavily  around  him.  Here,  and  there,  a  star 
looked  down  upon  him,  with  watchful,  reproving  eye.  He 
felt  alone,  in  tlic  presence  of  some  mighty,  mysterious  Being. 
Early  memories  returned ;  tlie  lessons  of  the  Sabbath-school, 
the  plaintive  toll  of  the  church-bell,  the  voice  of  his  mother,  as 
se.  I'd  on  her  knee,  she  taught  him  of  the  dear  Saviour,  who 
took  the  children  to  his  breast,  and  blessed  them. 

A  few  drops  of  rain,  from  a  passing  cloud,  fell  upon  his  head. 
In  the  excitement  of  the  reverie,  he  gasped, — 

"  These  are  her  tears !  Yes  !  Just  so  they  felt  on  my  fore- 
head, when  she  used  to  beseech  me  to  forsake  the  foolish,  and 
live,  and  go  in  the  way  of  understanding." 

He  leaned  over  the  vessel's  side.  The  rain-drops  ceased,  and 
the  phosphorescence  of  the  waters  was  like  a  great  lake  of  fire. 
The  billows  rose,  tossing  their  white  crests  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sank  into  the  burning  flood.  He  watched  them  till  his 
brain  "-rew  yiddv.  Presentlv,  a  single  faint  moonbeam  shot 
through  liie  cleft  of  a  cloud.     As  it  glimmered  over  the  surge, 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER   SON. 


251 


he  thought  a  face  loomed  up,  aud  gazed  on  him, — a  fair  young 
face,  paler  than  marble.  A  hand  seemed  to  stretch  itself  out, 
arms  to  hend  in  an  embracing  clasp,  a  floating  death-slnoud 
gleamed, — and  all  was  lost  forever. 

"Oh,  Margaret!  oh,  my  sister!"  he  shrieked,  "just  so  she 
looked  when  she  adjured  me,  in  the  name  of  God,  to  have  pity 
on  my  poor  mother,  and  on  my  own  soul." 

As  if  he  had  witnessed  her  funeral  obsequies,  he  wept  in 
remorseful  grief.  His  watch  closed.  In  horror  of  spirit,  he 
retired,  but  not  to  sleep.  Even  the  hardeiud  men  who  sur- 
rounded him  forl)ore  to  jei.'r,  when  they  heard  him  moan  in 
anguish,  "Oh,  Margaret!  oh,  my  sister!" 

These  strong  and  painful  impressions  scarcely  wore  away 
during  the  brief  remainder  of  the  voyage.  When  he  saw  in 
dim  outline,  the  hills  of  his  country  gleaming  amid  the  clouds, 
a  new  joy  took  possession  of  his  soul.  And  when  his  feet 
rested  again  on  the  solid  earth,  and  he  received  his  wages,  his 
first  thought  was  to  hasten  and  share  them  with  those  whom'  he 
had  so  recklessly  forsaken. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  house,  sir  7"  said  a  man,  upon  the 
wharf,  near  hhn.  "  Good  accommodations,  sir,  for  sailor  gen- 
tlemen.    Everything,  first  cut  and  first  cost." 

"  Where  is  )'^our  house  1 " 

"  Near  by.     Here,  boy ;   take  this  fine  young  man's  chest 
along.      I'll  show  you  the  way,  sir.      The  favorite  boarding 
house  for  all  jolly,  noble-spiriied  tars." 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  now  in  the  power  of  a  land-shark. 
Alas  !  for  all  his  hopes  :  the  struggles  of  conscience,  the  rekind- 
ling of  right  allections.  Temptation,  and  the  force  of  habit, 
were  too  strong  for  him.  Almost  continually  intoxicated,  his 
hard  earnings  vanished,  he  knew  not  how,  or  wliere.  It  was 
not  long  ere  his  rapacious  landlord  pronounced  him  in  debt,  and 


252 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


prodnord  claims  which  he  was  unable  to  meet.  His  chest,  with 
all  its  contents  was  seized,  and  he,  miserably  clad,  and  half 
bewildered,  was  turned  into  the  streets,  by  his  sordid  betrayer. 

As  the  fumes  of  prolong-ed-inebriety  siibsided,  horrible  images 
surrounded  him.  Smothered  resolutions,  and  pampered  vices, 
sprang  from  the  seething  caldron  of  his  brain,  frowning  and 
gibbering  like  ghostly  tormentors.  Monstrous  creatures  grinned 
and  l)eckoned,  and  when  he  would  have  fled,  cold  slimy  ser- 
pents seemed  to  coil  around  and  fetter  his  trembling  limbs. 

Still,  with  returning  reason  came  a  deeper  misery.  He  de- 
sired to  die,  but  death  fled  from  him.  Covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  as  he  sate  on  the  ground,  in  the  damp,  chill  air  of 
evenitig,  he  meditated  different  forms  of  suicide.  He  would 
fain  have  plunged  into  the  sea,  but  his  tottering  limbs  failed 
him.  Searching  for  his  knife,  the  only  movable  that  remained 
to  him,  he  exanu'ned  its  blunted  edge,  and  loosened  blade,  as  if 
doubting  their  efficiency.  Thus  engaged,  by  the  dim  light  of 
a  street-lamp,  groans,  as  if  the  pangs  of  death  had  seized  him, 
burst  from  his  heaving  breast.  Half  believing  himself  already 
a  dweller  with  condemned  spirits,  he  starte  i  at  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice. 

"Thee  art  in  trouble,  I  think." 

The  eyes  once  so  clear  in  days  of  innocence,  opening  wide 
and  wild,  glared  with  amazement  on  the  calm,  compassionate 
brow  of  a  middle-aged  man,  in  the  garb  of  a  Quaker.  The 
knife  fell  from  his  quivering  hand,  and  sounded  on  the  pave- 
ment.    But  there  was  no  answer. 

"  Thee  art  in  great  trouble,  friend ! " 

"  Friend  !  Friend  /  Who  calls  me  friend  ?  I  have  no 
friends,  but  the  tormentors  to  whom  I  am  going." 

"Hast  thou  a  wife?  or  children'?" 

"  No,  no ;  God  be  thanked.     No  wife,  nor  children.     I  tell 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER   SON. 


253 


icst  willi 
ml  half 
raycr. 
;  images 
hI  vices, 
ling  and 

giinned 
limy  Ser- 
bs. 

He  de- 
face with 
lill  air  of 
le  would 
lbs  failed 
remained 
iade,  as  if 
1  light  of 
ized  him, 

f  already 
ound  of  a 


nmg  wide 
Kissionate 
cer.     The 
le  pave- 


have  no 


n.     I  tell 


you  theve  are  no  friends  left,  but  the  fiends  who  have  come  for 
me.  No  home,  but  their  eternal  fires.  Siicals  of  them  were 
here  just  now,— ready!  aye,  ready /^'  uiid  he  laughed  a  de- 
moniac laugli. 

"Poor,  poor  youth!     I  see  thee  art  a  sailor." 

"  I  was  once.  What  I  am  now,  I  know  not.  I  wish  to  be 
nothing.  Leave  me  to  myself,  and  those  that  are  howling 
around  me.  Here !  here  !  I  come  : "  and  he  groped  aindessly 
for  his  lost  knife. 

The  heart  of  the  philanthropist  yearned  as  over  an  erring 
brother.  The  spirit  of  the  Master  who  came  to  seek  and  to 
save  the  lost,  moved  within  him. 

"  Alas !  poor  victim.  How  many  have  fallen,  like  thee, 
before  the  strong  man  armed.  Sick  art  thou,  at  th'i  very  soul. 
I  will  give  thee  shelter  for  the  night.  Come  with  me,  to  my 
home." 

'^  Home  /  Home  ?^^  shouted  the  inebriate,  as  if  he  under 
stood  him  not.  And  while  the  benevolent  man,  taking  his  arm, 
staid  his  uncertain  footsteps,  he  still  repeated,  but  in  tones  more 
humanized  and  tender, — "  Home  !  your  home  ?  What !  me  a 
sinner  7 "  until  a  burst  of  unwonted  tears  relieved  the  fires 
within. 

And  as  that  blessed  man  led  him  to  his  own  house,  and  laid 
him  upon  a  good  bed,  speaknig  words  of  comfort ;  hoard  he  not 
from  aliove  that  deep,  thrilling  melody,  "  I  was  sick,  and  ye 
visited  me,  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto  me.  Inasmuch  as  ye 
have  done  it  unto  one  of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me?" 

With  reviving  day  the  sinful  man  revived ;  humbled  in  heart, 
and  sad.  Subdued  by  suffering,  and  softened  by  a  kindness, 
which  he  felt  to  be  wholly  undeserved,  he  poured  out  a  fervent 
prayer  for  divine  aid  in  the  great  work  of  reformation.  He  was 
glad  to  avail  himself,  without  delay,  of  the  proposal  of  his  bene- 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


// 


^  .<^4f. 


1.0 


I.I 


111 


12.2 


IL25  i  1.4 


lil 


—    6" 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

(716)  S72-4S0J 


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V 


A 


\ 


% 


v 


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J 

'As,  ^ 


^ 


2o4 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER   SON. 


factor,  to  enter  on  service  in  a  temperance  ship  ready  to  sail 
iiuiuedintely  for  the  East  Indies. 

"  [  mil  ac(|nainled  with  the  captain,"  said  the  g^ood  man, 
"and  can  induce  him  to  take  thee.  I  am  also  interested  in  the 
vessel,  and  in  the  residts  of  her  voyag-e.  A  relative  of  mine, 
goes  out  as  supercargo.  Both  of  them  will  l)e  thy  friends,  if 
thon  art  true  to  thyself.  But  intemperance  hringeth  sickness  to 
the  soul,  as  well  as  to  the  hody.  Wherefore,  pray  for  healing, 
and  strive  for  penitence,  and  angels  who  rejoice  over  the  return- 
ing siimer,  will  give  thee  aid." 

Self-ahasement,  and  gratitude  to  his  preserver,  swelled  like  an 
overwhelmmg  flood,  and  choked  his  utterance. 

"  All  men  have  sinned,  my  son,  though  not  all  in  the  same 
way.  But  there  is  mercy  for  every  one  that  sorroweth,  and 
forsaketh  the  evil.  God  hath  given  me  the  great  happiness  to 
help  some  who  have  fallen  as  low  as  thee.  Thank  Iliui,  there- 
fore, and  not  the  poor  arm  of  flesh.  May  He  give  thee  strength 
to  stand  firm  on  the  Rock  of  salvation." 

Broken  words,  mingled  with  tears,  struggled  vainly  to  express 
the  euiotions  of  the  departing  sailor.  His  l)enefactor  once  more 
shaking  hiui  heartily  by  the  hand,  bade  him  farewell. 

"  Peace  he  with  thee,  on  the  great  waters.  And  remember 
to  strive  and  pray." 

A  new  world  seemed  to  open  npon  tlie  rescued  one.  Of  the 
quietness  and  order  that  pervaded  a  temperance  ship,  he  had  no 
anticipation.  There  were  neither  quarrels  nor  profanity,  so 
conunon  among  tiie  crew,  nor  arrogance,  and  capricious  punish- 
ment, on  the  i)art  of  those  in  power.  Cheerful  obedience,  and 
just  authority  prevailed,  as  in  a  well-regidated  family.  He  was 
both  surprised  and  delighted  to  find  his  welfare  an  object  of 
mterest  with  the  oflScers  of  the  ship,  to  receive  kind  counsel 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


25o 


from  tlicm,  and  lo  he  p(>niii(t»'fl  (o  niiploy  his  brief  intervals  of 
leisure  with  the  well-chosen  vohunes  of  a  seaman's  hhrary. 

Still  it  was  not  with  him,  as  if  lie  had  never  sinned.  Not  all 
at  once  could  he  respire  freely  in  a  pure  atmosphere.  Physical 
exhaustion,  from  the  withdrawal  of  slinudants  to  which  he  had 
been  lonjr  accustomed,  sometimes  caused  such  deep  despondence, 
that  life  itself  seemed  a  burden. 

Cherished  vice  brings  also  a  degree  of  moral  obliqjiitj'.  Every 
permitted  sin  lifts  a  barrier  between  the  clear  shining'  of  God's 
countenance,  and  the  cold  and  frail  human  heart.  Perverted 
trains  of  thought,  and  polluted  remembrances  still  lingered  with 
with  him,  and  feelings  long  debased,  did  not  readily  ac(iuire  an 
upward  tendency.  Yet  the  parting  admonition  of  his  benefactor 
to  strive  ana  pray,  ever  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  became  the 
motto  of  his  soul.  By  little  and  little,  through  faithful  ol)edi- 
ence,  he  obtained  the  victory.  His  improvement  was  noticed 
by  others,  before  he  dared  to  congratidato  himself;  for  hmuility 
had  strangely  become  a  part  of  his  character,  who  once  defied 
all  laws,  human  and  divine.  Ilis  countenance  began  to  resume 
the  ingenuous  expression  of  early  years,  and  the  eyes,  so  long 
fiery,  or  downcast,  looked  up  with  the  clearness  of  hope. 

"  Blessings  on  the  temperance  ship  !  "  he  often  ejaculated,  as 
he  paced  the  deck  in  his  nightly  watch,  "  and  eternal  blessings 
on  the  holy  man,  who  snatched  me  from  the  lowest  hell." 

At  his  arrival  in  a  foreign  port,  he  was  watchful  to  avoid 
every  temptation.  His  friend,  the  supercargo,  took  him  under 
his  especial  charge,  and  finding  him  much  better  educated  than 
is  usual  with  sailors,  gave  him  employjuent  of  a  higher  nature, 
which  was  both  steady  and  lucrative.  His  expenses  were  regu- 
lated with  extreme  economy,  that  he  might  lay  up  more  liber- 
ally for  those  dear  ones  at  home,  whose  images  became  moTe 


256 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


and  more  vivid,  as  his  heart  threw  o(T  tlie  debasing  dominion 
of  intemperance,  and  its  host  of  evils. 

The  returning  voyage  was  one  of  unmingled  jatisfaction. 
Compunclion  had  given  phice  to  a  healthful  virtue,  whose  root 
was  not  in  himself. 

"  Why  is  (his  1 "  he  often  soliloquized  :  "  why  should  I  be 
saved,  while  so  many  perish  1  How  have  I  deserved  such 
mercy,  who  willingly  made  a  beast  of  myself,  through  the  fiery 
draught  of  intemperance?  Oh,  my  mother!  I  know  that  thy 
prayers  have  followed  me, — they  have  saved  me." 

With  what  a  surpassing  beauty  did  the  hills  of  his  native  land 
gleam  upon  his  eye,  unfolding  before  him,  like  angel's  wings. 
He  felt  also,  that  an  angel's  mission  was  his  to  the  hearts  that 
loved  him,  and  wliich  he  in  madness  had  wounded.  Immedi- 
ately on  reaching  the  shore,  he  began  his  journey  to  them. 
Stopping  his  ears  to  the  sounds  of  the  city,  where  he  had  once 
sunk  so  low,  he  hurried  l>y  its  haimts  of  temptation,  less  from 
fear,  than  from  sickening  disgust. 

Autumn  had  ripened  its  fruits,  without  sacrificing  the  verdure 
of  summer.  It  was  the  same  season  that,  seven  years  before, 
he  had  traversed  this  region.  But  with  what  contrasted  pros- 
pects, and  purposes !  How  truly  has  it  been  said,  that  no  two 
individuals  can  differ  more  from  each  other,  than  the  same  indi- 
vidual may,  at  different  periods  of  life,  differ  from  himself. 

Richard  Jones  scarcely  paused  on  his  way  for  sleep,  or  for 
refreshment.  He  sought  couununion  with  none.  The  food  of 
his  own  thoughts  sufficed.  As  he  drew  near  the  spot  of  his 
birth,  impatience  increased  almost  beyond  endurance.  The 
rapid  wheels  seemed  to  niiike  no  progress,  and  the  distance  to 
lengthen  interminably.  Quitting  the  public  vehicle,  which  did 
not  pass  that  secluded  part  of  the  village  where  his  parental 
cottage  was  situated,  he  sought  it  in  solitude.     It  was  pleasant 


THE   WIDOW    AND    HER   SON. 


2o< 


to  him  to  come  thus  unknown,  and  he  meditated  the  rapturous 
surprise  he  was  about  to  create. 

Those  rocks  !  that  river !  can  they  he  the  same  ?  The  roof  I 
the  very  roof!  and  the  mapK;  that  shaded  it. — But  the  garden- 
fence,  the  gate,  are  l)roken  aud  gone.  Wlierc  is  the  honey- 
suckle that  ^hlrgaret  trained.  lie  was  about  to  lift  the  latch, — 
to  burst  in,  as  in  days  of  old.  But  other  thougiits  came  over 
him,  and  he  knocked  gently,  as  a  stranger ;  again,  more  earnestly. 

"  Who  is  there  1 " 

It  was  a  broad,  gruff  accent.  He  opened  the  door ;  a  large, 
coarse  woman  stood  there,  with  sleeves  rolled  above  licr  red 
elbows,  toiling  at  the  wash-tub. 

"  Does  the  Widow  Jones  live  herd" 

The  Widow  who  ?  why,  Lord,  no.     I  live  here  myself,  to  be 


sure. 


)) 


V 


The  quivering  lips,  and  parched  tongue,  scarcely  articulated, — 

"  Where  is  Margaret  Jones  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  1  I  never  hearn  o'  such  a  one,  not  I. 
Tho'  I've  been  here,  and  hereabouts,  this  two  year,  I  reckon. 

A  horror  of  great  darkness  fell  upon  the  weary  travclei.  He 
turned  from  the  door.  Whither  should  he  go?  Tiiere  was  no 
neighboring  house,  and  had  there  been,  he  would  fain  have  hid- 
den his  misery  from  all  who  had  ever  i;nown  him.  Instinctively 
he  entered  the  ])urial-ground,  which  was  near  by.  There  was 
his  father's  grave  with  its  modest  stone,  where  he  had  been  so 
often  led  in  childhood.  By  its  side  was  another,  not  fresh,  yet 
the  sods  were  imperfectly  consolidated,  and  had  not  gathered 
greenness.  He  threw  himself  upon  it, — he  grasped  a  few  dry 
weeds  that  grew  there,  and  waved  in  the  rising  blast. 

"  This  is  to  be  alone  in  the  world  !    Oh  God  !  I  have  deserved 

it ;  I  was  her  murderer !  but  I  dreamed  not  of  such  misery  !  '* 

Long  he  lay  there,  in  his  tempestuous  grief,  without  being 

n 


2:,s 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


K'    I   ji 


sensible  of  a  faint  liollow  sound,  heard  at  rcf^ular  intervals.  It 
was  the  spade  of  llie  sexton,  casting  up  earth  and  stones  from 
the  dei)lh  of  a  <^rave,  in  which  he  labored.  Evin  his  deaf  ear 
caught  the  voice  of  anguish,  as  he  linisiied  his  work.  Coming 
forward,  he  stood  in  wonder,  as  if  to  illustrate  the  description  of 
the  poet : 

"  Near  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made, 
Lean'd  the  sexton  thin,  on  his  eartli-worn  spade, — 
A  relic  of  by-gone  days,  was  he. 
And  his  locks  were  as  white  as  tiie  foam  of  the  sea." 

Starting  at  that  withered  eflTigy,  which  in  the  dim  haze  of 
twilight  seemed  ^nore  like  a  ghost  than  a  man,  he  exclaimed, — 

"  J)id  you  ever  hear  of  a  middle-aged  woman,  called  the 
Widow  Jones  ?  " 

"  Hear  of  her!  I  know'd  her  well,  and  her  husband  too. 
An  honest,  hard-working  man  he  was ;  and  when  he  died,  was 
well  spoke  of,  through  all  this  village." 

"  And  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Why  everybody  pitied  her,  inasmuch  as  her  husband  died 
so  stidden,  and  left  leetle,  or  no  means  behind,  for  her  and  the 
children." 

"  There  were  children,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  two  on  'em.  She  worked  hard  enough,  to  bring  'em 
up,  I  guess.  I  remember  the  funeral,  as  if  it  'twas  only  yester- 
day. I  stood  just  about  where  you  do  now  ;  and  I  used  this 
spade,  the  very  first  time  it  ever  was  used,  to  dig  that  .same  grave." 

With  a  convulsive  effort,  as  when  one  plucks  a  dagger  from 
his  breast,  he  asked  faintly, — 

"  When  did  she  die  ?  " 

"  Die  1  mercy  on  you !  Why,  I  don't  s'pose  she's  dead  at 
all.  Sure,  I  should  have  been  called  on  to  dig  the  grave,  if  she 
had  died:  that's  sartain.     I've  had  all  the  business  of  that  sort, 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON 


2":  I 


,    It 

from 
f  ear 
niing 
on  of 


aze 

of 

Tie(3 

l- 

ed 

the 

nd  too. 

ed, 

was 

ind  died 
land  the 


|-ing  'em 
yester- 

ksed  tlu3 
grave." 
er  from 


dead  at 
te,  if  she 
Ithat  sort, 


in  these  parts,  as  you  may  say,  for  this  forty  ynr,  and  hctlcr. 
There  did  once  come  a  person  from  the  North  country,  and  fry 
lo  midersell  me.  Hut  he  didn't  do  his  work  thorouj^h.  IIi< 
{.naves  caved  in.  He  couhhi't  get  a  livin<;,  and  so  he  went  ofV. 
I'll  show  ye  one  of  the  graves  of  his  digging,  if  you'll  jusi 

come  along." 

"  Tell  me,  for  God's  sake  !  if  the  Widow  Jones  still  lives?" 
"Why,  man!  what's  the  matter  on  ye  ?  you're  as  white  as 
the  tomh-stones.     I  tell  ye,  she's  alive,  for  aught  I  know  to  the 
contrary.    She  moved  away  froui  here,  a  considerable  time  ago. 
It  an't  so  well  with  her,  ai"  'twas  in  days  past. 

Grasping  the  sexton  strongly  hy  the  arm,  he  demanded, — 
"  Where  is  she  to  he  found  ?  " 

"  Oh  Lord !  help !  help !  the  man  will  murder  me,  I  verily 
believe.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  what  was  called  the  stone-house  ? 
just  at  the  hither  eend  of  the  next  village,  after  you  cross  a 
bridge,  and  go  up  a  hill,  and  turn  to  the  right,  and  see  a  small 
cluster  of  buildings,  and  a  mill,  and  a  mectin'-house?  WVll, 
she  lives  there  in  a  kind  of  sullcr-rooui,  for  I  was  a  telling  you, 
I  expect,  she  an't  none  too  well  o(T. — Goodness !  the  creature  is 
gone  as  if  he  wanted  to  ride  a  streak  o'  lightning,  and  whip  up. 
He  is  demented,  without  a  doubt.  What  a  terrible  risk  I've 
run!  Deliver  us  from  crazy  men,  here  among  the  tombs. 
How  awful  my  arm  aches,  where  he  clutched  it." 

While  the  garrulous  sexton  made  his  way  to  his  own  dwell- 
ing, to  describe  his  mysterious  guest,  and  immment  peril  of  life  ; 
the  supposed  maniac  was  traversing  the  intervening  space  with 
breathless  rapidity.  Lights  began  to  glimmer  froui  the  sparsely- 
sprinkled  dwellings.  The  laborers,  returning  from  toil,  took 
iheir  evening  repast  with  their  families.  Here  and  there,  a 
blazing  hearth  marked  the  chillness  of  advancing  autunm. 
Rushing  onward  towards  a  long,  low  building  of  gray  si  one, 


il'lO 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 


I  i 


m 


wliicli  npiM'.ircd  to  have  inany  teiiomoHts,  lu;  Itancd  a  niomeiil 
siijainst  its  walls,  to  recover  respiration,  and  l)uwiiig  down, 
look»'d  throufjli  an  uncurtained  window  in  its  gloomy  base- 
nient.  Hy  the  flickering  liglit  of  some  brush-wood,  huriiin'.-  in 
the  chimney,  he  saw  a  woman  placing  the  fragments  of  ;i  loaf 
upon  a  tid)le,  beside  which  sale  two  young  children.  She  was 
thin,  and  beiu  ;  but  having  her  heail  turned  from  him,  he  was 
unable  to  see  her  fealiues.  Could  that  l)C  /ler ;  so  changed? 
Vet,  the  ^^  come  //»,"  that  responded  to  his  rap,  was  in  a  tone 
that  thrill(Ml  his  inmost  soul. 

"Have  you  any  food  to  bestow?  I  have  travelled  far,  and 
am  hungry." 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  here  at  the  table.  I  wish  I  had  something 
better  to  oiler  you.     Wut  you  are  welcome  to  our  poor  fare." 

And  she  pushed  towards  him  the  bread  and  the  knife.  He 
cut  a  slice,  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  youngest  child,  watch- 
ing (he  movement,  whispered,  with  a  reproachful  look, — 

"  (Jranny  !  you  said  1  should  have  two  pieces  to  night,  'cause 
there  was  no  dinner." 

"  Hush,  Richard ! "  said  the  little  sister,  folding  her  arms 
aroiuul  his  neck.' 

'I'lie  returning  wanderer  with  dilficidty  maintained  his  dis- 
guise, as  he  marked  the  deep  wrinkles  on  that  brow,  wiiich  he 
had  left  so  comely. 

"  Have  you  only  this  broken  loaf,  my  good  woman?  I  fear 
the  portion  I  have  taken,  will  not  leave  enough  for  you  and 
these  little  ones." 

"  We  shall  have  more  to-morrow,  sir,  if  God  will.  It  was 
not  always  thus  with  us.  When  my  dear  daughter  and  her 
husbai'd  were  alive,  there  was  always  a  sufliciency  for  the  chil- 
dren, and  for  me.  But  they  are  both  dead,  sir;  the  father,  last 
year,  and  she,  when  that  boy  was  born." 


THE    WIDOW    AND    H  P'- R    SON. 


2(;i 


arms 


er,  lust 


"  Had  yoii  no  oilier  children  !  " 

Yes,  sir.  One,  a  son,  ;i  dciir  iind  most  lieauliful  l)ov.  Long 
years  have  passed,  since  he  went  away.  VVhelher  he  is  in  the 
land  (»f  the  living',  (lod  only  knows. 

Her  suppressed  sol)  was  cluinired  (o  surprise*  and  resistance,  as 
fhe  siranii'er  would  fain  have  fnldcd  her  in  his  arms.  Then. 
kneelin<r  at  her  feet,  and  holdini^  her  ihin  hands  in  his.  he 
said, — 

"  Mother!  dear  mother!  can  you  fora-lvr  me  all  ?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  sunken  eyes  strained  wide  open, 
and  fixed.  Color  lied  from  the  lips.  lie  carried  her  to  the 
poor,  low  hed,  and  threw  water  upon  her  temples.  lie  chafed 
the  rijj;id  hands,  and  in  vain  sonirht  for  some  rc'storative  to 
administer. 

"  Wretch  that  I  am  !     Have  I  indeed  killed  her  ?  " 

And  then  the  shrieks  of  the  children  grew  shrill  and  deaf- 
ening,— 

"  The  strange  man  lias  killed  grandmother!" 

But  the  trance  was  hrief.  Light  came  to  the  eye,  and  joy  to 
the  heart,  known  only  to  that  of  the  mother  who,  having  sown 
in  tears,  heholds  siuldenly  the  blessed,  unexpected  harvest. 

"Do  I  live  to  see  thy  face?  Let  me  hear  ti.^  dear  voice 
once  more,  my  son." 

But  the  son  had  vanislied.  At  his  retnrn  came  supplies,  such 
as  that  poor,  half-suhterranean  apartment  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed ;  and  ere  long,  with  those  half-famished  children,  they 
partook  of  a  repast,  whose  rich  elements  of  enjoyment  have 
seldom  been  surpassed  on  this  troubled  earth. 

"  What  a  good,  strange  man  ! "  said  the  satisfied  boy. 

"  W^e  must  not  call  him  the  strange  man  any  more,  hut  our 
uncle,"  said  little  Margaret;  "so  he  told  me  himself." 


|i 


<;  1 


•j(;2 


TUB    WIDOW    AND    HKR    SON 


'I 


"  Wliy  iiiiist  wi'  say  so  ?" 

"  Hicmisr  lu'  was  ilrar  hhiiIum's  dear  lirothtT,  jnsj  as  yon  nro 
iiiiiic.  Dill  iioi  y(Hi  sec  (liat  lie  cricil,  when  graiulmotln'r  lolii 
liiiii  she  was  dead  ( " 

"  Well,  I  shall  l()\()  liiiii  for  (hat,  and  for  the  gooil  siippor  he 
>.MVi'  us." 

"  Have  you  here  my  father's  large  Hiblc;  ?"  asked  the  sou  of 
lilt'  widow.  She  hronghl.  it  forth  from  its  sacred  depository, 
'.inrully  wra|)|)ed  in  a  towel.  Tears  of  rapturous  gratitude 
'  Iiased  each  other  along  the  furrows,  which  hitler  and  lunning 
'iiics  hiid  made  so  deep,  as  she  heard  him,  with  slow  and  solemn 
utterance,  reail  thiit  self-aliasing  melody  of  the  Psalmist:  "  Have 
iiirrcy  upon  me,  0  (jod,  according  to  thy  loving-kindness; 
according  to  the  multitude  of  thy  mercies,  hlot  out  my  trans- 
i.Tes^ions." 

This  was  the  Psalm,  that  during  his  hn.kenness  of  spirit,  on 
the  deep  waters,  had  heen  his  comforter;  and  now  he  se«'med  to 
i)reathe  into  its  eloipient  words,  the  soul  of  penitence  and  devo- 
tion. At  its  close,  he  kneeled  and  poured  out  a  fervent  prayer 
to  the  Gotl  of  their  salvation;  and  tin;  sleep  which  fell  that 
night  upon  all  the  hahitants  of  that  lowly  ahode,  was  sweet  as 
an  angel's  smile. 

The  daily  ellorts  of  Richard  Jones,  for  the  comfort  of  his 
mother,  were  heautiful.  Her  unspoken  wishes  were  studied 
with  a  zeal,  which  feels  it  can  never  either  fully  repay,  or  atone. 
For  her  sake,  and  for  that  of  the  little  orphans  intrusted  to  their 
(are,  he  rejoiced  at  the  gains,  which,  through  the  friendship  of 
the  supercargo,  he  had  heen  enahled  to  acquire  in  ?i  foreign 
clime,  and  which  to  their  moderated  desires  were  comparative 
wealth. 

But  amid  the  prosperity  which  had  been  granted  him,  he  still 


Wl] 

his 
arr 


THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON, 


2(13 


turned  willi  Iiniuilify  In  tin*  incmorialH  of  his  wasted  years.  In 
his  conversaticiiis  with  his  mother,  he  frankly  narrated  his  sins; 
and  wliih-  he  went  down  into  the  dark  depths  whither  intemper- 
ance had  h'd  him,  she  shuddered,  and  was  sih-nt.  Yet,  when 
he  s|)ok(!  of  the  lienefactor  who  had  fijiind  him  in  th(!  streets, 
ready  to  hecomc  a  self-murdt'rer,  she  raised  her  clasped  hands, 
and  with  stronjj^  emotion  liesouf^ht  hh-ssinj^s  on  him  who  had 
"saved  a  soul  from  (k-ath."  They  fek  that  it  is  not  the  highest 
and  hohe.st  compassion  to  reUevc;  the  Ixidy's  ills;  hut  to  rescue 
and  hind  up  the  poor  heart  that  hath  wounded  itself,  and  which 
the  world  hath  cast  out,  to  \)v  trodden  down  in  its  unpurged 
guilt. 

^Ic  was  n(»l  long  in  discovering  how  the  heart  of  his  mother 
yearned  after  that  fornu^r  home,  from  which  poverty  had  driven 
her.  On  iiujuiry,  lie  found  that  it  might  he  ohtained,  having 
heen  recently  tenanted  hy  vagrant  people.  The  time  that  he 
devoted  to  its  thorough  repair  was  hai)pily  spent.  Its  hroken 
casements  were  rei)laced,  and  its  dingy  walls  whitened.  The 
fences  were  restored,  with  the  pretty  gate,  over  whose  arch  he 
promised  himself,  that  another  season  should  hring  the  hlossom- 
ing  vine  that  his  lost  sister  had  loved. 

He  sought  also,  in  various  places,  those  articles  of  furniture 
which  had  heen  disposed  of  through  necessity,  and  which  he 
had  valued  in  c'arlier  days.  Soon  the  old  clock,  with  a  new 
case,  merrily  ticked  in  the  corner,  and  the  cushioned  arm-chair 
again  stood  hy  the  hearth-stone.  Near  it  was  poor  Margaret's 
work-tahle,  with  a  freshly  polished  surface,  on  which  he  laid, 
when  ahout  to  take  possession,  the  large  family  IJihle  bearing 
his  father's  name. 

Bright  and  happy  was  that  morning,  when  leaning  on  his 
arm,  the  children  walking  liand  in  hand  beside  them,  neatly 


18!', 

It: 


'w 


i 


204 


THE    WIDOW    AND    UKR    SON, 


apparrllcd,  the  widowrd  iiiollicr  appronclicd  tin-  lioinr  ondonn  d 
l»y  IfiidiT  recollections,  and  wlienc«',  poor  and  tlesolale,  she  had 
gone  forlh.  As  Nhe  paused  a  moment  at  the?  door,  th«?  ovcrllow- 
iiig,  nmitteral)Ic  emotion,  was  {gratitude*  for  the  restored  virtue  of 
the  iM'inj,'  most  ludoved  on  eartli.  It  wouhl  seem  that  congenial 
ihoiightN  occupied  him,  for  drawing  her  nrm  more  tenderly 
within  his  own,  he  said:  "Lo!  this  thy  sun  wu.s  deadj  and  is 
alive  again,  and  w(is  lost^  and  is  found." 


THE  TEMPERANCE  REFORMATION, 


AND    THE    CHURCH. 


BY    RRV.    E.    N.    KIRK. 


This  groat  moral  reformatory  movrmcnt  pn^cnfs  a  novc] 
feature  in  liiiman  history.  It  stands  alone  as  an  enterprise 
whose  aim  is  the  deslruction  of  a  single  vice;  as  un  enterprise 
growing  in  strength;  forming  a  literature  of  its  own;  revohuion- 
izmg  the  liahiLs  of  a  large  part  of  one  nation ;  and  creating 
a  new  standard  of  morality  in  the  Church  and  in  the  world, 
there.  The  theatre  of  its  triumph  is  the  United  States  of  America 
— the  citizens  of  which,  mainly  descended  from  the  northern 
nations  of  Europe,  had  inherited  the  maxims,  customs,  and 
tastes  of  their  Saxon  and  Celtic  ancestors.  The  use  of  intoxi- 
Cti'ing  heverages  was  interwoven  with  all  the  interesting  occur- 
rences of  social  life,  and  uuich  of  the  festive  enjoyment  of 
domestic  life.  The  constant  medical  eniploMiicnt  of  these  dan- 
gerous sul)stanccs,  had  likewise  placed  the  vice  of  intemperance 
beyond  the  range  of  ordinary  restraining  and  redeeming  influ- 
ences. A  vast  pecuniary  interest  was  enlisted  in  behalf  of  these 
customs ;  and  the  example  of  every  family  in  the  land,  almost 


266 


THE  TEMPERANCE  REFORMATION, 


without  exce])lion,  had  become  dangerous,  if  not  destructive  to 
the  young.  In  this  state  of  things  it  became  perfectly  obvious 
to  some  ph'ianthropic  men,  that  the  ordinary  influence  of  the 
chinch,  and  the  existing  mode  of  preaching  would  never  reach 
this  growing  evil.  Drunkenness  was  increasing.  Men  were 
disgraced  for  the  crime.  But  the  examples  and  maxims  of  the 
neighbors  who  despised  them,  had  directly  created  the  despicable 
habits. 

In  view  of  these  facts,  it  was  determined  that  a  new  public 
sentiment  must  be  created  by  organization,  or  combination  of 
efTort  to  enlighten  the  pul)lic  conscience. 

In  speaking  of  this  as  a  peculiar  enterprise,  allusion  is  made 
to  the  fact,  that  while  very  few  vices  have  ever  been  attacked 
by  such  a  combination  of  moral  influences  apart  from  the  church, 
no  similar  combination  has  ever  enjoyed  such  success. 

But  where  are  we  now  ?  A  very  interesting  inquiry  indeed  ; 
And  one  which  may  bring  very  diverse  answers.  The  period 
of  excitement  is  certainly  past.  The  phrase  of  "  the  reformers' 
combination  "  too,  is  pretty  much  past  away.  And  it  is  then 
an  interesting  inquiry ;  where  are  we  ?  All  is  not  gained  that 
was  once  hoped  for,  and  even  expected.  The  traffic  in  alcohol 
is  not  demonstrated  to  be  in  all  cases,  and  unqualifiedly,  wrong. 
Were  it  pos-ible  to  make  it  appear  so,  then  the  makers  and 
venders  wou'd  stand  in  all  cases  on  a  level  with  gamblers,  and 
the  proprietors  of  vile  houses.  The  use  of  any  thing  that  intox- 
icates is  not  in  every  case,  an  absolute  wrong.  This  fact  has 
left  the  vice  of  drunkenness  still  where  many  other  vices  are ; 
It  is  evident  that  some  men  are  vicious,  but  it  is  diflficult  alwa)^s 
to  tell  where  their  viciousness  begins.  Yet  sometliing  has  been 
gained  ;  much  indeed  !  If  we  coidd  compute  the  numbers  res- 
cued from  the  habits  of  intemperance,  and  the  greater  numbers 
saved  from  the  evils  and  perils  of  forming  the  habit,  we  should 


AND    THE    CHURCH 


267 


see  a  work  worthy  of  a  thousand-fold  more  energy  and  money 
than  it  has  actually  cost.  But  a  still  greater  result  is  seen  in 
the  principles  established  and  widely  enilnaced,  which  were 
not  understood  and  believed,  thirty  years  ago.  It  is  now 
known  that  alcohol  is  not  man's  beverngc ;  that  to  make  and 
vend  and  use  it,  as  such,  is  a  moral  wrong.  Its  medicinal  use 
also  is  now  more  vigilantly  guarded ;  and  its  connection  with 
social  life  is,  with  a  large  class  of  the  couununity,  entirely 
dissolved. 

But,  as  a  Reformation,  where  is  it  ?  Gradually  ceasing  to  hold 
its  prominent  place ;  because  its  mission  is  just  so  far  fuHilled, 
as  it  has  incorporated  its  higher  morality  with  the  religion  of  the 
land.  On  this  point  the  friends  of  Temperance  may  differ. 
But  my  opinion  I  give,  as  freely  as  I  permit  others  to  give  theirs. 
Morality  cannot  long  be  upheld  separate  from  Religion.  And 
the  only  propriety  in  organizmg  a  i^parate  mstitution  for  pro- 
nioting  any  branch  of  virtue,  is  ;  that,  for  some  reason,  the 
church  will  not  advocate  the  true  standard  on  that  point.  Then, 
let  whoever  has  more  light  than  the  church,  combine  with 
others,  to  show  his  light.  And  he  may  be  sure,  that  in  the  end, 
the  true  chuch  will  embrace  his  doctrine,  and  thenceforward 
enforce  it  with  all  the  sanctions  of  religion.  So  far  as  this  is 
accomplished,  the  end  of  such  organizations  is  accomplished ; 
and  the  necessity  for  their  existence  ceases.  The  idea  of  any 
institution  becoming  permanent,  whose  sole  object  is  the  pro- 
motion of  one,  and  that  an  external  virtue,  is  not  enforced  by 
any  thing  in  man's  nature  or  in  the  history  of  society. 

How  long  then  shall  this  reformation  be  continued  by  the  aid 
of  distinct  organizations'?  Just  so  long  as  the  Church  fails  to 
adoptit  fully  as  her  own,  if  sufficient  enthusiasm  can  be  kept 
alive  to  sustain  it.  But  the  view  here  presented  suggests  these 
considerations  to  reformers.      All  attempts  to  make  the  Temper- 


m 

i 


«t 


iWl 


2G8 


THE  TEMPERANCE  REFORMATION, 


ance  Reformation  from  intemperance,  merely  a  secular  interest, 
appealing-  to  the  lower  dvosires  of  temporal  good,  and  acting  in 
independence  of  the  sanctifying  spirit  of  God,  is  as  unwise,  as 
it  is  unchristian.  I  saw  a  recent  article  which  charged  a  leading 
reformer  with  being  visionary,  because  one  of  his  sources  of 
hope  was  the  agency  of  the  Holy  Spirit  in  revivals  of  religion. 
If  that  is  "  not  practical,"  as  the  writer  seems  to  think,  then 
man  has  no  liold  on  heaven,  and  his  hope  of  deliverance  from 
one  form  of  sin  must  be  rendered  vain  by  the  conviction  that  all 
his  reformations  will  be  but  a  lopping  off  the  branches,  while 
tlie  root  and  sap  are  unchanged.  "  Make  the  tree  good,"  said 
the  great  Reformer.  And  to  help  man  obey  that  radical  com- 
mand, he  promised  to  send  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Another  consideration  suggested  by  this  view,  is,  that  the 
friends  of  virtue  should  not  remit  their  efforts  in  this  particular 
direction,  until  the  true  ground  is  taken  by  the  Church  on  this 
subject.  Let  the  sacramental  question  alone;  let  the  medical 
men  determine  what  they  alone  are  competent  to  determine  on 
this  subject.  Let  legislative  bodies  license  or  refuse  to  license 
the  sale  of  poison  to  suicides.  Let  men  traffic  in  blood,  who 
love  the  employment.  Be  all  this  as  it  may,  one  thing  is  clear 
as  a  fact,  and  one  course  is  manifestly  right ;  the  use  of  intoxi- 
cating beverages  ;  the  mere  gratification  of  animal  appetite  as 
an  end ;  any  pursuit  of  pleasure  as  an  end,  is  immoral  and  un- 
christian. The  Church  of  Christ  therefore  must  exert  all  her 
legitimate  influence  to  enlighten  and  quicken  the  consciences  of 
man  on  this  subject. 

Shall  she  discipline  for  Intemperance  ?  Every  one  answers 
affirmatively,  in  cases  where  witnesses  will  testify  to  a  positive 
act  of  drunkenness  in  a  Church-member.  But  shall  her  discip- 
line be  administered  for  trading  in  intoxicating  beverages;  for 
using  wines  at  the  table  1    Questions  easily  proposed ;  not  so 


AND    THE    CH     RCH 


2G9 


Iswers 

Lsitive 

[iscip- 

for 

lot  so 


easily  answered.  If  you  discipline  for  trading  in  alcohol,  you 
n^ust  draw  a  clear  line  between  those  who  trade  in  it  indis- 
criminately, and  those  who  trade,  only,  with  tl^  intention  of 
having  it  rightly  used,  and  only  with  the  persons  who  use  it 
aright.  I  do  not  say,  there  will  not  lie  cases  where  a  man  pro- 
fessing to  serve  Christ  is  so  manifestly  "  Scattering  firebrands, 
arrows  and  death,"  that  a  Church  may  see  her  way  clear  to 
excommunicate  him,  after  having  exhausted  all  other  proper 
influences  to  withdraw  him  from  the  work  of  murder.  But  it 
will  be  found  in  practice,  a  matter  involving  many  difTiculties. 
It  must  at  last  be  referred  to  the  judgment  and  conscience  of  a 
Church,  where  the  Word  of  God  presents  no  specific  legislation, 
to  ap])Iy  its  general  laws  to  particular  cases.  I  am  sure  that  a 
Church  has  the  right  to  require  of  a  wholesale  dealer  in  alcohol, 
who  is  in  her  couununion,  that  he  conscientiously  restrict  his 
sales  to  cases  where  ho  has  suflicient  reason  to  believe  that  it  is 
to  be  employed  for  medicinal,  sacramental  and  chemical  pur- 
poses. How  long  she  shall  remonstrate  with  one  who  "  refuses 
to  hear  the  Cliurch,"  cannot  be  determined  by  rule.  A  still 
harder  case  is  that  of  the  social  use  of  wines.  I  know  of  no 
Church  that  has  yet  commenced  the  exercise  of  her  discipline 
for  the  practice  of  placing  './ine  on  the  table.  If  we  ought  to 
do  so ;  if  the  example  of  the  marriage  in  Cana  presents  no 
obstacle  to  such  a  course,  then  the  Reformers  must  continue 
their  work,  until  the  Church  shall  take  that  ground.  Let  us 
only  be  sun?  that  we  "  have  the  mind  of  the  Lord  ;  "  and  do 
not  fall  into  the  sin  of  "  lording  it  over  God's  heritage."  All 
excessive  measures  react ;  all  extravagance  of  feeling  in  one 
direction  oscillates  to  produce  a  balance,  by  going  as  far  in  the 
opposite  direction.  Sin  came  into  the  world  in  one  brief  hour, 
probably.  Sixty  centuries  have  nearly  rolled  away,  without 
seeing  it  exterminated.     The  great  requisites  for  opposing  sin 


r  \{ 


270     TEMP.    REFORMATION,    AND   THE    CHURCH. 


arc  those — that  we  cordially  hate  it  in  its  essence,  in  its  relations 
to  God,  as  well  as  its  consc^quences ;  that  we  oppose  it  first  in 
ourselves;  that  we  oppose  it  by  repentance  toward  God,  and 
faith  in  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ ;  that  we  use  Christ's  gospel  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  its  instructions  and  motives,  as  an 
instrument  man- ward ;  that  we  employ  prayer  toward  God ; 
that  we  combine  an  unquenchable  zeal  with  an  unwearied 
patience. 


FATHER    MATHEW. 

The  chief  worth  of  a  human  hfe  is  the  incitement  to  virtue 
or  warning  against  vice  which  we  naturally  derive  from  it. 
Divested  of  this  incitement,  this  warning,  biography  would  be 
unprofitable  reading,  and  the  most  exalted  or  dazzling  career 
would  hardly  repay  an  hour's  contemplation.  What  the  hero 
did  or  dared,  achieved  or  renounced,  is  important  to  us  only  as 
it  impels  us  to  do  good  or  avoid  evil,  and  shows  us  the  way. 
Tried  by  this  standard,  how  many  gre^^t  reputations  dwindle ! 
how  many  humble  souls  shine  forth  in  celestial  brightness  and 
majesty ! 

Theobald  Mathew  was  born  at  Thomastown,  near  Cashel, 
Tipperary  county,  Ireland,  on  the  10th  of  October,  1790,  of 
parents  in  the  middle  walks  of  life.  Left  an  orphan  when  still 
a  child,  he  was  adopted  by  Lady  Elizabeth  Mathew,  wife  of  his 
uncle,  Major  General  Mathew  of  Thomastown,  by  whom  his 
primary  education  was  confided  to  Rev.  Dennis  O'Donnell, 
Catholic  priest  of  Tallagh  in  Watcrford  county,  with  whom  he 
continued  until  thirteen  years  of  age,  when  he  was  promoted 
to  the  lay-academy  of  Kilkenny,  conducted  by  Rev.  Patrick 
McGrath,  with  whom  he  became  a  decided  flivorite.  Here  he 
formed  the  acquaintance  of  two  old  Capuchin  friars,  whose 


. 


FATHER    MATHEW. 


lie 


frugal,  tciiiprratc  and  Itencvolcnt  lives,  coiubiiKMl  with  their 
fatherly  counsels  in  tleepening  the  impressions  of  pictyj  humil- 
ity anil  charity  which  had  been  early  made  upon  his  plastic 
mind  i>y  the  maternal  counsels  of  his  second  mother,  Lady 
Elizabeth  Mathew,  and  fixed  his  character  for  life. 

He  remained  seven  years  at  the  academy,  and  then  (in  1810) 
was  transferred  to  the  Catholic  college  at  Maynooth,  to  pursue 
his  studies  for  the  priesthood,  to  which  he  had  early  been 
impelled  and  as  (he  humbly  believed)  Divinely  directed.  He 
studied  the  prescribed  three  years  at  Maynooth,  then  returned  to 
liis  friar  friends  at  Kilkenny,  and  became  a  member  of  their 
order,  ])y  which  he  was  appointed  on  a  mission  to  Cork.  He 
immediately  repaired  to  Dublin  to  pass  a  season  unde:  the  direc- 
tion of  Rev.  Celestine  Corcoran  in  spiritual  preparation  for  the 
duties  devolved  upon  him,  and  was  finally  ordained  there  by 
Rev.  Dr.  Murray,  now  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  on  Easter  Sun- 
day, 1814,  and  repaired  at  once  to  his  appointed  field  of  labor, 
being  not  quite  twenty-four  years  of  age. 

The  young  missionary  entered  upon  his  work  with  the  zeal 
of  an  apostle,  and  the  assiduity  of  a  humble,  pious  soul,  which 
counts  the  redemption  of  one  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  ways 
a  rich  reward  for  days  of  toil  and  nights  of  prayer.  Nor  did  he 
deem  his  duties  confined  to  the  dispensation  of  theologic  truth 
alone.  A  missionary  to  the  poor,  he  speedily  learned  and  loved 
to  be  their  counselor  and  guide  in  temporal  as  well  as  spiritual 
things — to  teach  them  how  to  walk  wisely  and  safely  on  earth 
as  w^ell  as  steadily  and  surely  toward  Heaven.  While  he 
eagerly  improved  every  opportunity  to  persuade  the  vicious  to 
repent  and  the  infidel  to  believe,  he  laljored  with  equal  diligence 
to  reconcile  the  quarreling,  to  conrpromisc  the  disputes  and  dif- 
ferences which  the  sinful  and  passionate  were  addicted  to  carry- 
ing into  lawsuits,  to  the  certain  bankruptcy  and  temporal  ruin  of 


llii'ir 
uimil- 
plastic 

Lady 

1 1810) 
pnrsno 
y  been 
d.     He 
irned  to 
of  their 
rk.     He 
le  direc- 
i  for  the 
Lherc  hy 
tor  Sun- 
of  labor, 

the  zeal 
d,  which 
lis  ways 
or  did  he 
Itric  truth 
nd  loved 
spiritual 
on  earth 
kVbile  he 
'icious  to 
diligence 
and  dif- 
to  carry- 
al  ruin  of 


> 


•i' 


f.f: 


fii 


1  ; 


^ 


'i     li. 


frujrnl, 

filtlu'll} 

ily  iuu 
mind 
Eli/a!) 
Ho 
was  ti 
his  St 
iiiipc 

StUlli' 

his  I 

ordc 

iinit 

tion 

(lilt 

Re 

ila 

be 

of 
c< 
a 


in"-  into  lawsuits,  (o  the  certain  l)anKni[)ic> 


t'  i 


I'     I 


il 
tl 
C( 

Nil 

P' 

Wl 

ini 

raj 

wl 

of 

Mc- 

inl 

line 

I  en: 

the 

or  t 

(lisr 

spei 
iled 
wor 
ferii 
relit 
any 
own 
jn(li( 
tent 
him 
re.so 
than 
Fi 


FATIIKR    MATHF.W, 


273 


iill  parties,  the  hiwyers  t'xccpird.  Kvcry  hour,  every  impulse, 
not  uhsohilely  recpiired  by  his  siicealolal  /unci ions,  was  thu.s 
consecrnletl  to  tlie  iiiuuediat(!  and  practic^al  f^ood  of  the  thou- 
sands conuuendeil  to  his  j,niidanie,  nine-tenlhs  of  whom  had 
probably  no  other  disinterested  and  competent  adviser  on  earth. 

Such  a  course,  on  the  piut  of  a  young,  modest,  simple  friar, 
without  parochial  charge  or  sacerdotal  rank,  without  couunand- 
ing  talents  or  fascinating  elo(|uence,  did  not  mature  its  fruit  too 
rapidly.  Probably  no  local  magnate,  no  distinguished  visiter, 
who  spent  some  time  in  Cork  during  the  fu'st  four  or  live  years 
of  his  ministry,  heard  one  word  uttered  in  praise  of  Father 
Mathevv — perhaps  the  greater  lumiber  of  such  visiters  had  no 
intimation  of  his  existence.  But  the  poor  knew  him  even  then, 
and  with  each  succeeding  year  they  knew  him  more  widely  and 
learned  to  love  him  more  profoundly.  He  was  their  adviser, 
their  monitor,  their  consoler ;  and  when  they  fell  into  misfortune 
or  disgrace,  they  had  generally  to  reproach  themselvi?s  with  a 
disregard  of  their  good  friar's  allectionate  counsels  and  entreaties. 

A  heart  so  tender  and  so  true,  a  spirit  so  deeply  moved  by  tlie 
spectacle  of  human  woes  and  sorrows,  could  not  long  rest  satis- 
fled  with  the  application  of  remedies  and  palliatives.  In  a 
world  so  benignantly  fashioned  and  appointed,  why  should  suf- 
fering and  misery  be  so  general  1  The  devoted  friar  observed, 
reflected,  and  was  convinced  that  human  perverseness,  and  not 
any  inexorable  necessity,  was  the  cause  of  this  suffering.  His 
own  perceptions  and  the  confessions  of  the  afflicted  coincided  in 
indicating  intoxicating  licjuors  as  the  inmiediate  cause  of  nine- 
tenths  of  the  crime  and  wretchedness  which  prevailed  around 
him.  Was  it  not  natural — nay,  inevitaljle — that  he  should 
resolve  to  make  war  unto  death  upon  the  fruitful  source  rather 
than  rest  in  a  never-ending  struggle  against  the  resulting  evils  ? 

Father  Ma(hew,  still  a  young  and  obscure  friar,  resolved  to 

18 


U 


274 


FATHER    MATHEW. 


aiiii  Ills  blows  at  the  viiltiir<;  tcorin^'  the  heart  of  liis  country  ra- 
ther than  expend  his  power  and  patience  on  the  pustules  con- 
stantly lireakini,^  out  on  her  surface.  Alcoholic  li(|Uors  hein^  the 
palpable,  potential  cause  of  nearly  all  the  vice,  disease  and  misery 
8o  deplorably  prevalent,  he  resolved  to  head  a  crusade  against 
these  deluding  poisons  as  the  shortest  ami  most  elfectual  mode  of 
warfare  against  their  inevitable  issues.  Anil  thus,  at  an  early 
period  of  his  ministry,  he  began  to  iticulcate  in  private  and  to 
preach   in   public  the  glorious  doctrine  of  Total  Abstinence 

FROM  ALL  TnAT  CAN  INTOXICATE. 

He  was  not,  and  makes  no  claim  to  be,  the  author  or  reviver 
of  this  doctrine.  There  had  been  societies  based  upon  it  years 
before,  not  only  in  America,  but  in  P^urope,  and  even  in  Ireland. 
The  Friends,  or  Quakers,  had  organized  such  societies  nine  years 
earlier,  and  had  made  some  converts  who  were  not  of  their  own 
persuasion.  But  he  who  knows  anything  of  the  fierceness  of 
theological  bigotry  in  Ireland  needs  nu  other  assurance  that  a 
movement  originated  and  guided  by  Quakers  could  do  httle 
toward  effecting  the  great  and  diflicidt  reform  so  fearfully  need- 
ed. Drinking  and  drunkenness  were  both  more  general  at  the 
time  Father  Mathew  commenced  iiis  war  upon  them  than  they 
liad  been  at  any  former  period.  If  they  were  not  still  advancing, 
it  was  because  they  had  nothing  left  to  conquer.  Drinking  at 
fairs,  births,  christenings,  weddings,  wakes,  and  funerals  was  ex- 
cessive, and  all  but  universal.  For  a  guest  to  refrain  from  getting 
drunk  at  his  friend's  feast,  no  matter  of  what  character,  would  in 
many  circles  have  been  deemed  a  breach  of  good  manners,  as  a 
failure  to  supply  the  means  of  intoxication  profusely  would  have 
argued  on  the  host's  part  a  lack  of  hospitality.  To  get  drunk  in 
honor  of  a  stroke  of  good  fortune,  or  in  sorrow  at  a  dispensation 
of  adversity — to  lie  drunk  because  of  prosperity,  or  still  more  stu- 
pidly drunk  by  way  of  surrender  to  despair — such  was  the  all 


FATHER    MATHEW, 


27  r^ 


SI  at 
ex- 

Itting 

lid  in 
as  a 

Ihave 
xk  in 

lation 
sta- 
le all 


Jiiii  universal  cmhIoih.  To  get  drunk  l»y  way  of  prrparatimi  Coi 
a  flfrht,  no  nuitter  with  whom — to  fight  krausr  drunk,  and  heal 
each  other  sober,  then  get  dnmk  again  l»y  way  of  ratifying  a 
trea'y  of  peace;  such  were  among  the  hahiis  of  the  Irish  mil- 
lions a  quarter  to  half  a  ceniiiry  ago,  as  memoirs,  travels,  anec- 
dotes and  pinys  aiumdanlly  attest.  Ni»  where  else  in  the  world 
WJis  so  larg(!  a  share  of  the  natural  fo<jd  of  a  people  tran^fornu'd 
into  depraving,  poisoning,  hrutalizing  Innerages,  leaving  so  scan- 
ty and  often  iniide(|uatc  an  allowance  of  bread.  That  feuds, 
factions,  wounds,  bruises,  calamities,  diseases,  idiocies,  and  sud- 
den deaths  of  all  kinds  should,  under  such  intluences,  be  plen- 
teous, none  need  be  assured. 

Father  Mathew  connuenced  his  crus'ule  against  alcohol  sim- 
ply as  a  priest,  and,  finding  by  inquiry  and  confession,  that  nine- 
tenths  of  llijp  woes  he  was  summoned  to  abate  or  consok'  had 
their  origin  in  inloxicatiug  li(piors,  connuenced  by  j)ersu;uling  the 
sufferers,  where  he  could,  to  promise  him  to  avoid  thenceforih 
that  which  had  wrought  them  such  injury.  This  was  for  a  time 
the  extent  of  his  unnoticed  labors  for  Total  Al>stinence.  But 
the  work  grew  upon  his  hands;  a  vista  of  hoi>e  and  good  opened 
wider  and  plainer  before  him,  as  he  progressed ;  and  in  1838  he; 
commenced  holding  two  public  meetings  per  week,  on  the  suc- 
cessive Tuesdays  and  Saturdays,  to  exhort  and  persuade  not  only 
the  intemperate  to  reform,  but  the  as  yet  unpolluted  to  take  also 
the  pledge  of  Total  Abstinence. 

His  first  meetings  were  held  at  a  place  known  as  the  Ilorsi; 
Bazaar,  in  Cork,  where  he  delivered  his  semi-weekly  addresses, 
distributed  his  Temperance  circulars — (which  were  often  reprints 
of  American  tracts,  essays  and  brief  stories,)  and  ulministered  the 
Pledge  to  all  who  could  be  induced  to  take  it.  That  Pledge,  as 
now  administered — and  it  has  probably  undergone  little  change 
from  the  outset — is  in  these  words : 


ii 


1 ' . 
!  A 


276 


FATHER     MATHEW. 


"  I  PROMISE,  WITH  THE  DiVINE  ASSISTANCE,  TO  ABSTAIN  FRO 

ALL  Intoxicating  Liquors,  and  to  prevent,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible,   BY  ADVICE  AND  EXAMPLE,  INTEMPERANCE  IN  OTHERS." 

A  simple  and  modest  promise,  but  one  which  has  abated  and 
obviated  more  human  anguish  than  all  the  decrees  of  councils  or 
mandates  of  kings  for  the  last  century. 

Father  Malhew's  path  of  duty  lay  not  wholly  through  sun- 
shine. Intending  good  to  all  and  harm  to  none,  he  yet  exposed 
himself  to  nuich  obloquy  and  more  acrimony.  Thousands  all 
around  him  were  living  in  comfort  and  amassing  wealth  by  a 
traffic  which  his  efforts  necessarily  diminished  and  tended  utterly 
to  destroy.  The  gentry  of  Ireland,  who  were  generally  looked 
up  to  as  superior  beings,  were  extensively  engaged  in  the  manu- 
facture of  spirits,  or  derived  their  incomes  from  the  rent  of  distil- 
leries, taverns  and  tap-rooms.  A  vast  aggregate  of  capital  and 
capacity  was  invested  in  the  distilling  business,  which  was  al- 
most the  only  Irish  manufacture  still  expanu.ng  and  flourishing. 
Dealers,  publicans  and  tapsters  were  innumerable,  while  very 
nearly  the  whole  people  were  drinkers  and  passionate  lovers  of 
the  maddening  fluid.  Three  of  Father  Mathew's  own  brothers 
and  a  brother-in-law  were  deeply  interested  in  distilling,  and 
likely  to  be  ruined  by  the  success  of  his  effective  appeals  and  in- 
cessant labors.  He  was  of  course  pained  by  the  obvious  collision 
of  his  duty  with  the  interests  of  those  so  dear  to  him,  but  he  could 
not  be  seduced  from  fidelity  to  his  convictions. 

"  The  kingdom  of  God  cometh  not  with  observation."  For 
years  the  good  friar  had  lal)ored  on,  neither  solicitous  of  fame 
nor  regrefs-ng  obscurity,  before  the  attraction  of  a  wider  field  of 
usefulness  impelled  him  to  open  his  public  meetings  expressly  to 
win  converts  to  Temperance,  which  had  hitherto  been  but  an 
incident  of  his  ecclesiastical  la!)ors.  Now  the  poor  of  Cork  be- 
gan to  flock  to  him  in  crowds ;  soon  the  sufferers  from  alcohol 


FATHER   MATHEW 


277 


in  places  more  or  less  remote  l)egan  to  drop  in  by  twos  and  threes, 
then  by  dozens  and  scores,  at  last  by  forties  and  hundreds,  at  his 
meetings  or  dwelling,  to  receive  at  his  hands  the  administration 
of  the  saving,  fortifying  pledge.  These  carried  home  and  dif- 
fused the  fame  of  the  saintly  and  meek  Apostle  of  Temperance  ; 
and  some  pressing  invitations  were  sent  him  to  visit  other  places 
and  prosecute  his  labors  therein.  In  December,  1839,  he  was 
persuaded  by  Dr.  Ryan,  Catholic  Bishop  of  Limerick,  to  visit 
that  city,  and  here,  (like  Byron,  though  for  a  nobler  reason,)  he 
suddenly  '  found  himself  famous.'  The  city  could  not  lodge  all 
the  people  who  crowded  into  it  to  meet  him,  and  thousands  slept 
on  the  ground,  though  every  cellar  and  shed  were  filled.  The 
iron  railing  along  the  bank  of  the  Shannon,  opposite  the  h'^use 
in  which  he  was  a  guest,  was  at  one  time  broken  down  by  the 
pressure  of  the  multitude,  and  several  persons  were  precipitated 
into  tiie  river,  though  happily  without  loss  of  life.  So  dense 
was  the  crowd  at  his  first  meeting,  that  individuals  walked  over 
the  shoulders  of  kneeling  thousands  to  receive  the  pledge  and 
the  Apostle's  blessing,  and  soldiers,  endeavoring  to  preserve 
order,  were  lifted  from  the  ground  by  a  rush  of  the  people,  and 
borne  several  rods  without  injury  to  any  one. 

From  the  date  of  that  visit,  Father  Mathew's  fame  has  been 
a  part  of  the  national  heritage,  while  his  labors  have  been  inces- 
sant and  their  fruits  gigantic.  He  has  traveled  over  Ireland 
more  than  once,  administering  the  pledge  to  no  less  than  jive 
millions  of  her  people,  or  about  two-thirds  the  whole  number 
now  living,  and  reduced  the  number  of  drunkards  in  a  still  greater 
proportion.  At  Donnybrook  Fair,  world-famous  for  its  drunken 
riots,  there  were  recently  gathered  fifty  thousand  persons,  not 
one  of  them  intoxicated,  and  of  course  without  a  single  fight. 
Listowell,  which  had  thirty-three  licensed  drunkard-factories  in 
1839,  had  but  six  in  1843,  and  so  of  many  other  places.     In 


278 


FATHER   MATHEW, 


Bonmalion,  where  fifteen  whiskey-shops  existed  prior  to  Fathe- 
Mathew's  visit,  there  was  not  one  some  time  afterward.  The 
consequent  falhng  off  in  commitments  to  jail  for  drunkenness, 
rioting-,  assaults,  &c.,  has  been  very  great,  and  so  in  the  recep- 
tions at  hospitals  of  persons  disabled  or  wounded  by  blows,  falls, 
or  accidents,  as  well  as  of  the  loathsome  victims  of  delirium 
tremens.  Ireland,  once  a  reproach  for  drunkenness,  is  now  a 
land  of  comparative  sobriety,  and  Father  Mathew  was  the  chief 
instrument  of  Divine  benignity  in  effecting  this  glorious  trans- 
formation. 

Of  his  charities,  his  cemetery,  and  other  devices  for  the  com- 
fort and  consolation  of  the  poor — of  his  visit  to,  and  labors  in 
England — of  his  yet  uncompleted  mission  to  our  own  country 
and  i(s  beneficent  results,  space  is  not  left  me  to  speak.  These 
belong  to  a  later  chronicler,  a  more  methodical  memoir.  The 
one  important  moral  of  Father  Mathew's  career  is  the  ability 
and  opportunity  vouchsafed  to  every  one  to  be  greatly  useful  if 
he  will.  This  truth  his  life  strikingly  illustrates,  and  there  can 
hardly  be  another  more  deserving  of  attention.  The  good  friar 
js  not  gifted  with  splendid  talents,  w^ith  brilliant  oratory,  with 
wealth  nor  rank  nor  powerful  friends — he  had  scarcely  an  ad- 
vantage of  any  sort  which  most  of  the  young  who  will  read  this 
sketch  may  not  possess  or  parallel  if  they  will.  His  elevation 
above  the  mass  of  his  cotemporaries  is  purely  moral,  not  intel- 
f.ual ;  it  rests  upon  purity  of  life,  goodness  of  heart,  and  Chris- 
tian philanthropy  of  purpose.  Who  that  contemplates  such  a 
ciiaracter  shall  seek  to  excuse  himself  from  a  career  of  equal 
beneficence  and  eternal  glory? 


DASH    THE    WINE-CUP    AWAY. 

BY    WILLIAM    H.     BURLEIGH. 

Dash  the  wine-cup  away !  though  its  sparkle  should  be 
More  bright  than  the  gems  that  lie  hid  in  the  sea, — 
For  the  Demon,  unseen  by  thine  eye,  lurketh  there, 
Who  would  win  thee  to  ruin,  to  v/oe,  and  despair ! 


Believe  not  tlie  tempter  who  tells  thee  of  joy 

In  the  bright  flashing  goblets  that  lure  to  destroy ; 

Nor  barter  thy  birthright,  nor  give  up  thy  soul, 

For  a  moment's  mad  bliss,  to  the  Fiend  of  the  Bowl ' 

Oh,  the  mighty  have  fallen ! — the  strong  and  the  proud 
To  the  thrall  of  the  wine-cup  have  abjectly  bowed ; 
For  its  maddening  delights  flung  their  glory  away. 
And  yielded,  insanely,  their  souls  to  its  sway. 


The  wise  and  the  learned  in  the  lore  of  the  schools, 
Have  drunk — and  become  the  derision  of  fools ; 
And  the  light  that  made  radiant  the  spirit  divine, 
Hath  often  been  quenched  in  a  goblet  of  wine. 


280 


DASH    THE    WINE-CUP    AWAY 


Youth  and  Beauty,  while  yet  in  their  strength  and  their  glow, 
Have  been  marked  by  the  fiend  and  in  ruin  laid  low  ; 
And  the  Priest  and  the  Statesman  together  have  kneeled 
To  the  Wine-God  obscene,  till  in  madness  they  reeled  ! 

Oh,  the  Earth  in  her  woe  for  her  children  hath  wept, 
To  the  grave  of  the  drunkard  in  hecatombs  swept ; 
While  the  Demon,  enthroned  o'er  her  sunniest  climes, 
Hath  unleashed,  in  his  wrath,  all  his  woes  and  his  crimes ! 

And  the  altars  of  Devils  still  smoke  with  the  blood 

Of  our  sires  and  our  sons — once  the  wise  and  the  good — 

While  dark  and  more  dark,  gather  over  our  path 

The  clouds  that  are  charged  with  Jehovah's  dread  wrath  I 

Shall  we  wait  till  they  burst,  and  from  mountain  to  sea 
Old  Earth  like  the  Valley  of  Hinnom  shall  be  1 
And  sternly  o'er  all.  Desolation  shall  reign. 
While  the  vulture  sits  gorged  over  heaps  of  the  slain  ? 

Nay — up  to  the  rescue  !     The  land  must  be  torn 

From  the  grasp  of  the  Demon  whose  fetters  we've  worn — 

Our  homes,  by  his  touch,  be  no  longer  profaned — 

Our  souls  in  his  thraldom,  no  more  be  enchained  ! 


Dash  the  wine-cup  away  !  we  will  henceforth  be  free — 
Earth's  captives  their  morn  of  redemption  shall  see. 
And  the  foul  ^end  that  bound  them  be  thrust  back  to  Hell, 
While  the  songs  of  our  triumph  exultingly  swell ! 


INCONSISTENCIES    OF 


PROFESSED   FRIENDS   OF   TEMPERANCE. 


BY     CHARLES    JEWETT,     M.     D. 


Temperance  is  often  sorely  wounded  in  the  house  of  its 
friends ;  and  painful  as  is  the  task  of  administering  reproof,  yet 
I  shall  attempt  it,  even  at  the  hazard  of  displeasing  many 
whom,  in  the  main,  I  have  reason  to  respect.  Breaking  the 
package  of  inconsistencies,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand  is  that 
most  extraordinary  and  inexcusable  one,  of  which  many,  even 
members  of  temperance  societies,  are  guilty — letting  public- 
houses  and  shops  with  the  permission  to  carry  on  the  detestable 
and  destructive  trafiic  in  intoxicating  drinks  within  their  doors. 
What  renders  such  a  course  of  conduct  altogether  inexcusable 
in  those  who  practice  it,  is  the  fact  they  are  generally  men  of 
wealth,  who  mighi,  without  serious  inconvenience,  let  their 
estates  for  other  purposes,  or  who,  if  they  could  not,  would  not 
eat  less  bread  or  sleep  less  hours  if  they  stood  untenanted.  Yet 
many  there  are  who  will  condemn  the  conduct  of  the  heartless 
rumseller,  although  he  offers  as  an  excuse  his  necessities,  and 
can  quote  Scripture  to  enforce  the  duty  of  providing  for  "  one's 
household,"  and  talks  about  ruin,  distress,  &c.  if  he  ceases  to 


282 


INCONSISTENCIES    OF    PROFESSED 


ruin  others !  and  yet  tlioy  will  let  their  tavern  or  shop  for  a 
slaughter-house  of  souls,  lor  an  additional  rent  of  ten,  twenty 
or  fifty  dollars,  when,  I  repeat,  of  property  they  have  enough 
for  present  and  prospective  wants,  and  perhaps  a  surplus  suffi- 
cient to  ruin  their  children.  In  what  consists  the  guilt  of  the 
rumsellcr?  Is  it  not  that  he  furnishes  to  vice  facilities,  to  crime 
its  incitants?  And  does  not  the  lessor  of  the  grog-shop  afford  to 
vice  facilities,  and  to  crime  means  and  opportunity  1  The  day 
will  come, — or  I  sadly  mistake  the  signs  of  the  times, — wlien 
he  who  furnishes  the  room  in  which  drunkards  and  tipplers 
may  congregate  to  gratify  their  base  appetites  will  be,  in  the 
estimation  of  the  public  bound  in  the  same  bundle  with  him 
who  pours  to  them  poison  for  money.  How  can  any  professed 
friend  of  the  cause,  who  is  guilty  of  the  conduct  I  have  des- 
cribed plead  with  the  rumseller  or  rum-drinker  to  change  his 
course  1  He  dare  not  attempt  it.  They  would  both  taunt  him 
with  his  inconsistency. 

Would  that  this  were  the  only  obstacle  which  the  friends  of 
our  cause,  influenced  by  the  love  of  money,  throw  in  the  path 
of  reform.  But  it  is  not.  Another  more  formidable  may  be 
found  in  the  fact,  that  many,  very  many,  so  far  as  my  observa- 
tion extends,  even  of  the  members  of  our  total  abstinence  socie- 
ties are  constantly  in  the  habit  of  trading  at  rum  stores,  having 
their  sugar,  tea,  spices,  &c.  put  up  by  the  same  hands  that 
pour  out  the  maddening  draught  to  the  poor  drunkard. 
They  condemn  his  business  in  unmeasured  terms,  and  yet  help 
to  sustain  him  in  his  busi^ess.  They  pour  into  his  drawer  the 
profits  of  their  trade,  which,  in  due  time,  are  exchanged  for 
rum,  gin,  &c.,  with  which  his  decanters  are  replenished :  and 
so  the  work  goes  on.  Were  the  temperance  community  to 
withdraw  their  patronage  altogether  and  leave  him  to  the  sup- 
port of  his  rum  customers,  he  could  not,  in  most  of  our  country 


FRIENDS    OF   TEMPERANCE. 


283 


tov/ns  at  least,  sustain  himself,  and  if  forced  by  the  consistency 
of  teinperance  men  to  pnt-t  with  his  rum  trade,  or  their  patron- 
age he  would  empty  his  bottles,  and  cease  to  order  from  your 
city,  hogsheads  of  wretchedness,  crime,  disease,  and  death,  to 
peddle  in  the  beautiful  villages  and  towns  of  the  interior. 

The  business  of  destroying  God's  bounties  and  human  hopes, 
so  extensively  carried  on  by  rjome  bloated  capitalists  of  your 
city,  would  soon  become  unprofitable  as  it  is  infamous.  The 
excuses  for  such  a  course  of  conduct  generally  are,  that  it  is  more 
convenient  to  trade  at  the  rum  store,  because  it  is  nearer,  or  that 
the  articles  they  wish  to  obtain  can  be  purchased  cheaper  of  the 
rumseller  than  at  the  temperance  store.  Of  any  who  may  ofier 
such  an  excuse,  I  would  ask.  What  then  1  Suppose  the  rum- 
seller  continue  his  trade  on  the  ground  that  it  would  be  inconve- 
nient for  him  to  change  his  business  or  that  it  would  subject  him 
to  pecuniary  loss  were  he  to  abandon  it  ?  shall  he  go  on  7  Oh, 
no !  You  will  not  consent  that  his  convenience  or  profit  shall 
be  taken  into  account  in  deciding  his  future  course.  You 
demand  that  he  give  up  his  business  perhaps  at  a  loss  of  fiv<i 
hundred,  or  a  thousand  dollars  per  year !  and  yet  if  he  refuses 
to  do  so  and  continue  to  exert  his  influence  to  curse  the  commu- 
nity in  which  you  hve  you  will  sustain  him  in  his  course  by  the 
profits  and  influence  of  your  trade  to  save  a  half-mile's  travel  or 
a  cent  on  a  pound  in  the  purchase  of  your  sugar.  These  things 
ought  not  to  be ;  and  we  earnestly  entreat  those  who  may 
peruse  this  article,  to  examine  themselves  in  reference  to  tlr's 
particular,  and  if  they  have  been  faulty  in  time  past,  be 
careful  that  their  whole  influence  in  future  shall  be  given  to  the 
promotion  of  our  glorious  cause. 


!;•    '    ii 


TEMPERANCE    AND  RELIGION. 


BY    RET.    ALBKRT    BARNES. 


Good  men  everywhere  are  endeavoring  to  promote  reforma- 
tion. The  age  in  which  we  hve  is  characterized  hy  such  efforts, 
perhaps  as  much  as  by  anything  else.  A  deep  interest  is  felt — 
an  interest  which  has  not  been  common  in  former  ages, — in  be- 
half of  those  who  are  wronging  themselves  by  vicious  indulgence, 
and  in  relation  to  all  those  systems  which  originate  or  perpetuate 
wrong.  These  efforts  are  made  to  bear  alike  on  individuals  that 
they  may  be  recovered  from  habits  which  threaten  their  ruin, 
and  on  social  and  organic  wrongs  and  evils.  Yet  we  need  not 
go  far  to  see  that  the  subject  of  reformation  is,  after  all  the 
attempts  which  are  made,  but  little  understood ;  and  that  there 
are  few  things  which  men  attempt,  where  the  principles  of  action 
are  IcjS  accurately  defined.  The  efforts  which  are  made  are  well 
meaning  ;  the  plans  which  are  adopted,  are  designed  to  be  be- 
nevolent ;  but  they  are  often  wild  and  visionary,  and  harsh  and 
unphilosophical.  The  hope  of  success  is  often  based  on  that 
which  is  philosophically  false ;  or  on  that  which  has  no  perma- 
nent value  and  importance  ;  the  single  object  which  is  aimed  at 
is  often  so  magnified  as  to  occupy  the  whole  field  of  vision  ;  and 
the  reformation  is  prosecuted  with  no  just  apprehension  of  the 


TEMPERANCE    AND    RELIGION. 


285 


proportional  value  of  lliings,  and  with  a  rccklrss,  or  designed 
disregard  of  the  most  vuliial)le  interests  of  society. 

The  question  then,  What  is  the  true  philosophy  of  reforma- 
tion? is  one  of  great  permanent  importance  in  an  age  like  this. 
To  what  principles  shall  we  appeal  in  •,  omoting  individual  or 
piihlic  reform  ?  on  what  siudl  we  base  our  hopes  ?  What  is  there 
on  which  wc  may  rely  to  give  permanent  success  1  This  tincs- 
tion  has  more  than  the  passing  interest  of  a  day  ;  I  propose  to 
examine  it  with  a  particular  reference  to  the  present  aspect  of 
the  temperance  reformation.  That  has  been  among  the  most 
glorious  of  all  reforms  ;  what  has  been  gained  there,  may  be  in 
danger  of  being  lost  by  a  departure  from  its  true  principles,  and 
by  reliance  on  that  which  is  of  no  permanent  value.  One  grave 
question  which  is  now  coming  before  this  age  is,  whether  this 
reformation  can  be  carried  forward  to  its  final  triumph,  without 
the  aid  of  the  religious  principles  or  of  religious  men ;  and 
whether  there  are  other  principles  which  can  be  successfully  sub- 
stituted in  the  place  of  those  which  are  directly  derived  from  reli- 
gion. The  importance  then,  without  undervaluing  other  aid,  of 
calling  in  the  aid  of  religious  principle,  and  of  relying  permanent- 
ly on  that,  and  of  calling  in  the  steady  co-operation  of  religious 
men,  will  be  the  point  at  which  my  remarks  ivill  be  really  directed. 

In  all  attempts  to  promote  reformation — that  is  a  change  for 
the  better — in  an  individual  or  in  society,  there  is  some  ground 
of  appeal  ;  something  on  which  we  found  our  hopes  of  success. 
We  do  not  expect  that  it  will  be  achieved  l)y  miracle  ;  or  by  the 
operation  of  any  new  laws  of  our  nature  originated  for  the  pur- 
pose, or  by  any  element  in  society  \vhich  has  never  existed  be- 
fore. Now,  on  what  do  we  rely  in  such  cases?  What  is  the 
ground  of  our  appeal  1  What  is  the  foundation  of  our  hope  1 
Let  us  analyze  the  operations  of  our  own  minds  in  such  cases, 
and  see  what  there  is  on  which  we  can  rely. 


2SG 


TEMPERANCE   AND   RELIGION. 


First,  we  suppose  that  there  is  something  in  the  individual, 
whom  we  would  wish  to  rcfoiin,  that  is  not  yet  quite  extinct, 
that  may  he  roused  again  into  hfe  and  power,  and  be  made  the 
eU-ment  of  better  things.  We  do  not  regard  him  as  (|uite  dead 
and  insensible  to  every  generous  and  noble  appeal ;  but  beneath 
file  ruiibish  in  his  ruined  na'ure,  we  hope  to  find  some  remnant 
of  a  noble  soul ;  some  generous  sympathy  that  may  be  awaken- 
ed into  vigorous  life  ;  some  almost  anliquated  spark  of  virtue 
that  may  be  enkindled  to  a  flame,  that  i)rinciplc  or  element  in 
the  soul,  we  would  rouse  up,  so  that  it  may  assert  its  just  pre- 
rogative, and  trimnph  over  the  base  and  ignoble  passions  which 
have  usurped  its  place.  We  would  go  to  the  man  that  is  debased 
and  sunken  and  find  in  him,  if  we  could,  some  love  of  father 
or  mother,  or  sister,  or  child,  or  country ;  some  not  extinguished 
self-respect ;  some  lessons  embedded  in  childhood,  not  wholly 
obliterated ;  some  remains  of  a  conscience  ;  some  respect  for 
decency ;  some  lingering  love  of  gain,  or  virtue  or  God ;  some 
principle  of  ambition  or  desire  to  Ije  remembered  after  death, 
that  may  be  roused  into  action,  and  that  may  be  made  to  be 
superior  in  power  to  the  base  principles  which  now  control  the 
soul.  So  Paley  was  saved.  "  You  are  a  great  fool,"  said  a 
young  heir  of  nobility  to  him,  when  in  the  University — a  com- 
panion in  dissipation ; — "  Yon  are  a  great  fool,  to  be  wasting 
your  talents  thus.  You  have  talents,  which  might  raise  you  to 
the  highest  distinction.  I  have  not ;  and,  as  for  nie,  I  may  as 
well  as  not  squander  my  time  in  this  manner."  The  generous 
soul  of  Paley ;  his  noble  nature  not  yet  insensible  to  an  appeal 
addressed  to  his  ambition,  felt  the  reproof.  He  took  the  hint 
thus  roughly  tendered  ;  and  there  are  few  names  in  English 
literature  that  shine  more  brightly  than  his.  In  all  attempts  at 
reformation — whether  it  be  of  the  young  man  who  is  a  profane 
swearer,  or  the  wretched  female  apparently  lost  to  virtue ;  or  of 


TEMPERANCE    AND    U  ELI  01  ON 


287 


the  poor  in('l)iial(' — ilic  nW\vcl  of  iinivcrsul  pity  or  scorn,  or  of 
the  sinner  revolted  from  liis  (Jod,  and  wlioni  God  isdesiionsto 
brini^  hack  to  the  ways  of  virtue  and  religion,  man  is  regarded 
as  indeed  in  rnins ;  but  benoulli  tliosc  ruins,  tliere  is  su[)|)osed  to 
be  something  generous,  something  noble,  something  great,  sonie- 
tliing  magnanimous,  to  which  an  appeal  may  be  made  with  the 
hope  that  he  may  be  aroused  to  seek  an  object  worthy  of  the 
ends  for  which  he  was  made.  There  are  some  fragments  of 
greatness;  there  are  elements  of  power;  there  is  still  something 
noble  and  God-like  on  which  you  may  builil  your  ho[)e. 

If  these  should  not  exist,  you  would  regard  tlu;  case  as  hope- 
less. If  all  self-respect  were  gone  ;  if  all  love  of  father,  moth- 
er, wife,  child,  sister,  country  were  extinguished  ;  if  there  were 
no  lingering  love  of  decency,  property,  esteem ;  if  there  were 
no  wish  to  be  happy  while  living,  or  to  be  remembered  when 
dead,  we  should  feel  that  there  was  no  prospect  of  success  in  a 
work  of  reformation. 

I  need  not  say  that  those  remarks  apply  with  peculiar  force  to 
the  subject  of  temperance.  If  there  is  any  man  who  seems 
lost  to  lu)pe  and  to  virtue,  and  whose  condition  would  seem  to 
defy  all  eflbrls  to  reform  him  it  is  the  confirmed  inebriate.  In 
such  a  man,  everything  which  excites  elevated  thougut  in 
regard  to  the  present  or  the  future  world,  seems  to  be  dead  ; 
and  the  common  and  almost  the  settled  feeling  of  mankind  had 
come  to  be,  that  such  a  man  must  be  abandoned  to  despair. 
But  is  there  no  hope  of  his  reformation :  is  there  nothing  in  him 
to  which  an  appeal  can  be  made  with  a  prospect  of  success : 
let  the  efforts  expressly  directed  to  recover  the  inebriate,  and 
successful  ill  thousands  of  instances,  answer. 

An  almost  accidental  occurrence  in  Baltimore  struck  a  new 
chord,  and  showed  that  reformed  inebriates,  by  telling  the  story 
of  their  ow.   sad  experience,  might  strike  a  chord  which  should 


.; 


^. 


288 


TEMPERANCE    AND    RELIGION, 


respond  to  flio  appeal.  Tin  y  did  so.  Tluy  relaU-d  tlioir  own 
history,  and  they  sought  to  arouse  in  the  heart  of  the  drunkard 
»  love  of  sonjething,  of  the  wife  whom  he  had  onte  so  joyfully 
led  to  the  altar.  Of  the  children  he  had  once  so  lovingly  dan- 
dled on  his  knees — or  some  lurking  love  of  himself  and  respect 
for  his  character.  And  the  result  has  shown  that  it  is  practica- 
ble. There  is  hope  of  ri'forming  the  inteuiperate  man.  And 
tlie  question  now  arises,  on  what  are  we  to  rely  for  the  per- 
manent success  of  this  cause?  To  what  class  of  minds  does  it 
appeal?  Shall  we  continue  to  appeal  solely  to  the  intemj)erate 
man?  or  shall  we  rely  on  the  higher  principle  of  religion  and 
call  to  our  aid  the  religious  conuuunity?  I  need  not  say  that 
a  large  part  of  the  religious  conuuunity  have  stood  aloof  from 
tliis  cause  and  do  so  still.  And  again  a  portion  of  the  friends  of 
temperance  have  sought  to  throw  ofT  the  religious  couununity. 
And  so  there  has  been  a  constant  tendency  between  the  two  to 
diverge  from  each  other.  Whether  it  were  that  religious  men 
were  indulging  in  habits  inconsistent  with  aiding  this  cause — 
whether  they  had  capital  invested  in  business  with  which  it 
W">uld  interfere,  and  they  lacked  the  rcjjuisite  self-denial : 
wl.  c.er  ministers  were  indulging  in  habits  hostile  to  its  princi- 
ples, or  a  large  part  felt  that  it  was  somehow  a  low  business, 
and  therefor  stood  aloof:  or  whether  in  the  progress  of  the 
caus(j  itself  among  its  friends  such  a  course  was  pursued  as  that 
the  friends  of  religion  could  not  consistently  act  with  them — 
these  are  not  the  points  of  chief  interest  now.  But  so  it  is. 
There  ure  a  large  number  of  ministers  and  members  of  churches 
who  still  stand  aloof.  Now,  what  interest  have  religious  men 
in  this  cause ;  and  why  sliould  the  friends  of  Temperance  seek 
their  co-operation?  We  can  answer  this  inquiry  better  after 
glancing  at  the  points  which  have  been  established  in  the 
progress  of  the  temperance  reformation. 


TEMPERANCE    AND   RELIGION. 


28'.) 


1.  It  is  cslnltlislicd  iliat  nlfoliol  is  tlif  sniuo  wlirrcver  found; 
tlinl  it  is  not  the  result  of  distillation,  l)iit  of  ffrnicniaiion,  wliicli 
id  a  clioniiciil  process;  und  that  it  is  the  same  in  rum,  brandy, 
wines  or  cider. 

2.  Tluit  this  siii)siance  contains  no  nutriment — that  it  does 
nothini,^  to  repair  the  constant  waste  of  the  animal  economy. 

8.  That  on  the  lihres  of  the  human  system  it  acts  as  poison 
In  all  instances  when  it  acts  at  all. 

4.  That  it  is  a  fruitful  source  of  poverty,  wretchedness  and 
crime !  for  it  has  been  proved  that  thne-J'ourths  of  all  these 
evils  result  from  its  use. 

5.  'i'hat  it  is  a  source  of  disease  and  death. 

0.  That  the  wIkjU*  tralVic  in  ardent  spirits  is  inconsistent  with 
those  princi[)les  upon  which  honorable  men  should  conduct  traf- 
fic, i  do  not  say  that  those  who  made  the  existing  laws  for  its 
regulation  were  actuated  by  improper  motives.  I  know  that 
they  said  and  believed  that  iilcobol  was  necessary  for  the  cold 
and  weary  traveller ;  that  it  woidil  be  dangerous  to  allow  every 
one  to  sell  it,  and  so  they  would  lecpilre  evidence  of  good  cha- 
racter in  those  to  whom  they  granted  licences  for  its  sale.  To 
secure  this  in  Pennsylvania  they  rerpiired  the  certificate  of 
twelve  men  that  the  ap[)licant  was  worthy  of  being  intrusted 
with  the  sale  of  this  poison.  I  say  not  how  this  trust  has  been 
discharged.  But  the  whole  thing  was  wrong.  It  is  not  need- 
ful; it  is  poisonous  and  should  be  intrusted  to  no  man. 

7.  We  have  also  settled  the  principle  that  it  is  possible  to 
reform  a  drunkard  ;  and  still  more,  that  the  only  perfect  safety  is 
for  a  man  to  let  it  entirely  alone,  and  so  never  encounter  the 
danger.     The  only  perfect  safety  is  in  total  abstinence. 

These  principles  are  to  abide.  The  world  is  not  to  depart 
from  them.  They  are  the  result  of  the  most  profound  incpiiries 
of  the  most  learned  men — ^jurists,  men  of  science,  ministers — 


290 


TEMPERANCE   AND    RELIGION. 


all,  men  of  characfer  and  in  the  habit  of  tlecicling  such  quos- 
tions.  Now,  those  principles  are  not  to  pass  away.  And  on 
what  shall  we  rely  for  their  further  and  final  triumph  1  I  be- 
lieve it  right  to  ai)peal  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  I  trust  soon 
to  hear  that  no  further  licences  will  be  granted  for  the  sale  of 
intoxicating  drinks.  I  believe,  too,  that  reliance  is  to  be  placed 
upon  the  deductions  of  science.  But  the  ultimate  reliance  must 
be  on  the  religious  principle  and  on  the  religious  community. 
In  sujjport  of  this  position,  I  urge  these  considerations. 

1.  The  religious  principle,  right  or  wrong,  is  the  most  power- 
ful agency  in  the  world.  Whatever  controls  that,  controls  the 
world,  and  it  has  always  been  ihe  aim  of  emperors  and  kings  to 
obtain  control  of  the  religion  of  the  state,  feeling  that  when 
they  had  acquired  that,  they  held  the  destiny  of  the  whole. 
The  priest  everywhere  has  been  the  man  of  power.  And  if 
the  religious  principle  can  be  enlisted  in  the  cause  of  temper- 
ance the  triumph  of  that  cause  is  secured  for  ever ;  and  that  it 
should  be  so  enlisted  is  most  evident,  for  the  highest  points 
ronched  in  the  temperance  cause,  coincide  perfectly  with  the 
principles  of  religion. 

2.  In  a  community  under  the  influence  of  religion,  no  reform 
can  succeed  that  does  not  call  religion  to  its  aid.  In  the  United 
States  there  are  eighteen  thousand  Protestant  evangelical  min- 
isters, meeting  the  people  two  or  three  times  a  week,  going 
into  families,  and  exerting  more  influence  over  tlie  }^outh  of  the 
land  than  any  other  body  of  men  within  its  borders.  There  are 
also  two  millions  of  members  of  the  churches — embracing  a 
large  part  of  the  wealth  and  character  of  the  land,  there  is  no 
cause  of  reform  in  the  country  that  could  stand  a  day  if  the 
Church  were  united  against  it.  And  there  is  no  form  of  evil, 
organic  or  individual,  that  the  Ch'uch  has  not  power  to  remove. 
And  if  the  Church  could  be  brought  up  to  this  Temperance 


TEMPERANCE    AND   RELIGION. 


291 


I  mui- 
Toing 
If  the 
l:e  are 
Ing  a 

is  no 

tf  the 
evil, 

Inove. 

trance 


cause,  to  enhst  in  it  zealously  and  heartily,  its  triumph  would  ho 
speedy  and  complete. 

3.  The  Temperance  reformation  has  ever  had  a  close  connei - 
lion  with  religion.  It  has  prospered  just  in  proportion  to  tlic 
maintenance  of  that  connection  and  has  receded  wherever  it  has 
thrown  off  that  aid.  The  cause  originated  with  a  physician. 
Dr.  Rush !  and  notwithstanding  his  ability  and  influence  it  had 
no  effect  until  tlie  note  of  alarm  came  out  of  the  Christian 
Church  !  and  the  men  who  have  since  then  urged  it  on,  liave 
been  mainly  ministers  of  the  gospel,  and  still  are  such  to  a  great 
extent.  The  religious  community  has  the  deepest  interest  in 
the  triumph  of  this  cause.  Let  any  man  attempt  to  write  the 
history  of  the  Church  in  this  land,  and  what  a  dark  page  would 
that  be  which  should  record  its  aversion  to  this  cause.  The 
cause  of  intemperance  opposes  religion  with  the  l)oldest  and 
most  open  front.  From  the  fust  step  to  the  last,  it  is  most 
directly  hostile  to  it.  All  other  evils  put  together  have  not 
robbed  the  Church  of  so  many  distinguished  men  as  this. 
Why  then  shall  the  Church  stand  aloof  from  the  Temperance 
cause  1  It  makes  no  infidels ;  makes  no  invasion  upon  any 
good  work :  disrobes  no  minister  of  religion ;  bars  out  no  prayers 
from  heaven,  infuses  no  pestilential  air  in  the  way  through  life. 
Wherever  its  friends  go,  it  accompanies  them  as  a  blessing  to 
the  end  of  their  days.  Why  then,  should  any  friend  of  religion 
stand  aloof  from  the  Temperance  Cause. 


li 


JOPTN    W.    OLIVER 


M.  W.  P. 


Was  born  April  30,  181  o.  His  parents  emigrated  to  this 
country  from  England  in  1818.  His  ''.alier  pursued  fanning 
near  Baltimore  until  his  deatli,  which  took  place  in  January 
1822.  He  left  a  widow  and  four  small  children,  of  which  John 
was  the  eldest. 

In  1826,  he  was  bound  an  ajiprentice  to  Benjamin  Edes, 
Printer,  of  Baltimore.  The  first  act  for  which  John  was  dis- 
tinguished^  may  be  set  down  as  the  following  : — 

He  had  been  bathing,  and  while  in  the  water  his  jacket  was 
stolen.  As  he  was  the  owner  of  but  one,  he  was  compelled  to 
make  the  loss  known  to  his  employer,  who  declared  that  John 
should  go  in  his  shirt  sleeves  as  long  as  the  stolen  jacket  would 
have  lasted.  Not  relishing  this  very  well,  he  determined  to  try 
and  bring  his  employer  to  terms.  With  the  aid  of  some  of  his 
fellow  apprentices,  he  made  a  paper  coat,  with  pasteboard  but- 
tons, and  every  seam  distinctly  marked  out  with  nik.  At  din- 
ner time  John  put  on  this  odd-fasbioned  garment  and  proceeded 
to  his  meal.  It  so  happened  on  that  day  that  quite  a  company 
of  visitors  were  present — and  John  was  soon  ^  the  observed  of 
all  ol (Servers."  The  employer  was  al)sent.  Some  of  the  family 
were  enraged — others  enjoyed  the  joke.     John  was  ordered  to 


to  this 
fanning 
lannary 
ch  John 

n  Edcs, 
was  dis- 


w* 


>0 


t 


cket  was 
peUcd  to 
lat  John 
ot,  would 
d  to  try 
lie  of  his 
oavtl  but- 
At  clin- 
3rocecilecl 
company 
)scrvod  of 
he  family 
■oicleied  to 


' 'f\'    J.    'l'->*-' 


,»■ 


i-  )i 


i 


J  0  n  > 


\\ .  ? . 


Was  [torn  A  A 
count IV  from  F''. 
near  Ballimoro 
182-2.     IIc>  lof 
was  tlic  eldest 

In  1820,  li 
PrintiT,  of  B; 
tingiiislted,  ni 

Ho  Imd  1)0( 
stolon.     As  1) 
make  tlu-  los 
slionltl  go  in  'ii-  •' 
liavo  laslod.      .v./' 
and  luiui;'  hi 
follow  apprc 
tons,  and  c^ 
nrr  liiiio  Jo    >  ; 
to  ]]U  meal 
of  visitors        1'.    , 
all  oliscivo 
wore  cnra^.  ,.     ^■ 


I    >  xf 


".i-i,c|   r;-viiiiri'.: 

iii.         '    \ ,'  I  I-  .1  ■,'.'■ 

■    ■■      ■..        .>'ll      .        I'.U      «•  .,        '/:  ■  - 

:  ■ !    (i  >    '.-i.-k-  I    UT 


'  .,  .!;  .  'i'-.  ■•'•  .'.;••  .)■.!  . 


\      >       ,  ,   li:-    lIr;'TiU  I'l.'.i   :■>  .:} 
»^    ;  -   llii^    till  oi  «(M"'  '','   I:! 

I 

■    fpr/.  V.  Iii:   ;>a-,;i'i>o,u  i  1'":- 

•     -V|.    I     Ml'..  \'    •      . 


t,'  1.  '■• 

r;.V!:lil''.: 


wr 


.t-.'i 


i  h\v.- 


■   I'. 


itiiil-.-  ••)•  hmay 


1( 
b. 

tc 
w 
ei 

on 
.•if( 
stn 

to 

(lei 


ed 

api 

I 

mis 

goo 

ove 

and 

his 

But 

habi 

resol 

cum 

0 

by  t 

whei 
II 


JOHN    W.    OLIVER,         M.  W.  P. 


•2'X\ 


leave  the  room,  which  he  dechncd  doing.  lie  was  then  seized 
by  the  collar  and  ejected — leaving-  his  coat  "  all  tattered  and 
torn,"  behind  him.  The  scene  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  witnessed  it.  The  fragments  of  the  coat  were  shown  the 
employer,  and  loud  complaints  made  of  the  indignity. 

John  anticipated  a  flogging — and  prepared  for  it,  by  putting 
on  all  the  shirts  and  waistcoats  he  could  muster.  During  the 
afternoon,  the  voice  of  the  employer  was  heard  from  below 
stairs — 

"  Little  John ! "  as  our  hero  was  called  in  contra  distinction 
to  "  Big  John  "  an  older  apprentice. 

"  Sir !  "  returned  John — and  all  hands  v/ere  on  tiptoe  for  the 
denouement. 

"  Get  your  hat,  and  come  with  me,"  was  the  command. 

John  obeyed  with  alacrity — was  taken  to  a  tailor  and  present- 
ed with  as  good  a  suit  of  clothes  as  he  possessed  during  his 
apprenticeship. 

He  soon  became  a  leader  among  his  comrades  in  all  sorts  of 
mischief,  and  it  was  often  predicted  that  he  would  "  come  to  no 
good."  Left  very  much  to  his  own  way,  with  no  one  to  watch 
over  his  moral  culture,  he  soon  formed  dissipated  association** 
and  habits.  After  he  was  out  of  his  time,  he  often  reflected  ou 
his  couse  of  life,  and  more  than  once  resolved  on  reformation. 
But  like  thousands  of  others,  he  found  himself  bound  to  his  bad 
habits  by  a  power  for  the  time  at  least,  stronger  than  his  gooti 
resolutions.  About  the  middio  of  May,  1835,  however,  a  cir- 
cumstance occurred  that  gave  a  different  turn  to  his  vhole  life. 

On  a  Thursday  evening  he  and  a  companion,  a  shoemaker 
by  trade,  were  musingly  proceeding  to  an  accustomed  resort, 
when  something  like  the  following  conversation  occurred. 

"  I  am  getting  very  tired  of  this  kind  of  life,"  said  John. 

•'  And  so  am  I,"  was  the  reply. 


1 


2!)4 


JOHN    W.    OLIVER,  M.  W.  p. 


'*  I  linvf  tr't'd  to  break  ofl'  these  habits  and  associations — but 
1  find  it  ilnpossiI)U^" 

"  And  so  have  I — and  I  too  find  it  impossible." 

"  I  l)elieve,"  continued  John,  and  the  conversation  by  this 
tune,  had  assumed  a  seriousness  quite  unusual  to  both — "  I 
believe  my  only  chance  to  do  better  is  to  leave  Baltimore,  and 
uet  among  strangers." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  what  do  you  say  for  a  tramp  1 " 

''  Agreed  !  " 

On  the  Sunday  morning  following,  before  day-light,  they 
\\(?re  on  the  way — their  entire  wardrobes  tied  up  in  a  small 
li.tndkerchief,  and  their  united  capital  less  than  ten  dollars. 
They  took  the  first  road  they  came  to,  and  followed  it — without 
any  fixed  purpose  other  than  to  get  out  of  Baltimore,  or  the 
^Hghtest  idea  as  to  where  they  were  going.  The  all-engrossing 
iliought  was — to  get  away  from  their  bad  habits  and  associations. 

The  road  led  them  to  York,  Pa.,  one  of  the  last  places  they 
should  have  gone  to  with  any  hope  of  employment.  They 
arrived  there  early  the  next  morning — and  sought  work,  but  in 
vain.  They  continued  their  "  tramp  "  to  Columbia — but  with 
no  better  success.  Nothing  daunted,  they  pushed  on  to  Lancas- 
ter, which  they  reached  with  blistered  feet  and  jaded  limbs. 
Still  finding  no  employment,  and  being  utterly  unable  to  pro- 
c-eed  farther  on  foot,  they  prevailed  upon  the  railroad  agent  to 
convey  them  to  Philadelphia  for  all  the  money  they  had  left — 
considerably  less  than  the  regular  fare. 

They  arrived  in  the  city  of  Brotherly  Love  penniless,  about 
di  sk.  "  Strangers  in  a  strange  land,"  they  felt  desolate  enough. 
Afrer  wandering  about  the  city  for  a  while,  they  fortunately  fell 
in  with  ,1  kin^  -^arted  gentleman  who  kept  a  boarding-house  in 
Third-street.     They  frankly  told  him  tlieir  story — it  interested 


JOHN    W.    OLIVER,  M.  W.  P, 


2'.!.') 


him,  and  lie  oiTcrcd  the  wamlerors  n  liuiiu',  whicli  was  most 
gratefully  accepted.  The  next  morning  the  landlord  procured 
employment  for  lli"  lompamon.  lie  (hen  visited  several  of  the 
printing  oHices  to  find  a  situation  for  Oliver — hut  in  this  he  failed. 

After  a  week  had  elapsed  the  companion  hccame  homesick, 
and  proposed  le  return,  but  Oliver  would  not  consent.  Before 
they  left  Bul'unore  they  vowed  to  each  other  not  to  separate 
except  by  mutual  consent.  The  companion  ofiered  all  \ui  could 
command  to  be  released  from  this  oltligation — but  in  vain.  At 
length  Oliver  prt)posed  to  go  to  New  York — and  in  the  event  of 
their  failing  to  get  employment,  or  not  liking  the  place,  then  to 
ship  and  go  to  any  part  of  the  world.     This  was  assented  to. 

On  t!.  20th  of  May,  after  many  kind  words  of  advice  from 
their  host,  they  took  scats  in  a  forward  car  of  the  Camden  and 
Amboy  Railroad.  About  noon  they  were  landed  in  New  York 
■ — again  friendless  and  penniless  in  a  strange  city.  On  reaching 
the  lower  part  of  Broadway,  they  met  a  merchant  of  Baltimore 
whom  they  knew  oniy  by  sight.  So  glad  were  they  of  the 
privilege  of  even  looking  on  some  one  they  had  seen  before, 
that  they  followed  him,  until  ho  entered  a  store. 

They  strolled  round  the  city  for  nearly  an  hour,  baggage  iu 
hand.  On  going  through  Fulton  street,  a  ])rinter's  sign  met 
their  view.  Oliver  entered  the  office,  and  found  Mr.  William 
S.  Dorr  the  proprietor,  at  his  desk  writing  an  advertisement  for  a 
hand.  Terms  were  agreed  upon,  and  after  despatching  his  com- 
rade to  find  a  boarding  house,  Oliver  went  to  work.  After  a 
short  time  the  conu'ade  returned  in  great  alarm.  Callins'  Oliver 
aside  he  exclaimed — 

"  Why,  John,  the  boarding-house  keepers  want  pay  in  ad- 
vance, and  we  havn't  a  cent!" 

Oliver,  really  glad  to  find  this  was  the  worst,  put  on  his  coat 
and  went  to  the  boarding-house. 


296 


JOHN    W.    OLIVER,    M.    W.    P. 


"  I  am  a  prinlcr,  Madiini,"  said  ho  bolilly  lo  llir  laiullady, 
fully  I)cli('viiig  liiis  annouuccmciit  only  iK-cessuiy  to  inspire 
confidence. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  have  found  the  printers  a  very  bud  set," 
r(>plied  the  landlady.  "It  was  only  last  week  one  went  away 
iVoni  here  without  paying-  his  board ! " 

This  was  an  unlooked-for  and  unanswerable  argument — but 
however,  they  succeeded  in  gaining-  the  good  graces  of  the 
landlady,  and  were  very  comfortably  provided  for. 

On  the  following  day  the  companion  procured  employment, 
and  for  several  weeks  everything  passed  along  swinuningly. 
But  the  shoemaker  soon  became  dissatisfied — and  without  con- 
sulting his  comrade,  shipped  and  went  on  a  whaling  voyage. 
Oliver  continued  in  good  employment,  and  labored  faithfully  at 
his  trade. 

In  l83(j  he  learnt  that  his  only  brother,  Isaac,  was  forming 
associations  similar  to  those  from  which  he  had  fled.  This 
caused  him  much  uneasiness.  He  asked  his  employer — for 
whom  he  was  then  acting  as  foreman — if  he  would  take  Isaac 
as  an  apprentice,  stating  that  he  would  like  to  have  his  brother 
learn  to  be  a  printer  under  his  own  eye.  The  employer  con- 
sented, and  Isaac  was  written  for. 

In  November,  l8oG,  John  got  into  business  in  a  small  way 
for  himself,  at  134  Division  street.  A  short  time  after,  a  young 
man  entered  the  otfice,  and  extending  his  hand  familiarly 
exclaimed — 

"  Why,  John,  how  do  you  do ! " 

John  took  his  liand  mechanically,  but  said  nothing.  The 
stranger  continued  in  astonishment — 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me  1 " 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  your  face  is  familiar,"  replied  John, 
*'  but  really  I  cannot  call  your  name." 


JOHN    \V.    OLIVER      M.    \V.    P. 


297 


"  Is  it  possililo  you  don't  know  your  own  Itrotlier ! " 

The  scene  that  followed  was  interesting  and  mutually  gratify- 
ing-. But  eighteen  months  I)efore,  John  had  left  his  brother  a 
small  hoy — now,  though  liut  sev"-^»"en,  that  hrolher  was  as  tall 
as  himself.  Isaac  at  once  placed  himself  under  John  as  an 
apprentice. 

In  1837,  the  shoemaker  returned  from  soa,  and  was  much 
rejoiced,  and  not  a  little  surprised,  to  find  his  old  companion 
doing  so  well.  A  few  weeks  after,  he  went  back  to  Baltimore 
— and  ultimately  to  his  old  associations  and  habits. 

The  financial  difilculties  of  1837  compelled  John  to  relinquish 
business,  and  go  to  work  as  a  journeyman.  In  May,  1838,  he 
hired  a  small  room  at  78  Canal  street,  and  with  about  $2  50 
re-commenced  business.  Not  feeling  entire  confidence  however 
in  the  enterprise,  and  as  at  that  time  he  filled  a  lucrative  situa- 
tion, he  placed  his  diminutive  establishment  in  charge  of  his 
brother,  and  continued  to  work  as  a  journeyman. 

After  laboring  hard  all  day,  the  two  brothers  would  sally  forth 
at  night — one  with  a  bucket  of  paste  and  a  brush,  the  other 
with  two  or  three  thousand  bills  calling  attention  to  their  office 
— and  work  at  bill  posting  till  twelve  or  one  o'clock.  The  busi- 
ness soon  amounted  to  about  thirty  dollars  a  week,  and  this  war- 
ranted John  in  devoting  his  whole  time  to  his  own  office. 

In  1841,  Isaac  was  out  of  his  time,  and  acted  as  foreman  for 
John.  In  March  of  the  same  year,  Messrs.  Mitchell,  Hawkins, 
Pollard,  Shaw  and  Casey,  of  the  original  Washington  Temper- 
ance Society  of  Baltimore,  visited  New  York.  The  brothers 
Oliver  were  among  the  first  to  sign  the  pledge  under  their 
truthful  appeals.  They  participated  in  the  organization  of  the 
Washington  Temperance  Benevolent  Society,  and  threw  them- 
selves into  the  work  with  singular  devotion. 

In  May  following,  the  New  York  Organ  was  started,  by  a 


208 


JOHN     W.    OLIVER,    M      W.    P. 


joint.  ronijKiuy.  When  (lie  scvdnd  iiislMlincnl  on  (lir  rnpital 
stoolv  was  jiillcd  for  Iiowcmt,  (here  was  a  <renenil  hacking  oui, 
and  Ohver  was  left  to  nssnnie  th«'  paper  or  h-i  it  (he.  lie  cliose 
the  former,  and  continued  its  piihhcation  until  July,  1842. 
From  various  ronsichnations  he  then  disposed  (»f  it. 

For  the  lust  time  since  he  left  it,  he  now  made  a  visit  to  Bal- 
timore. What  inroads  had  Inthmi-kuanci:  made  upon  his  old 
friends  and  associates!  Some  had  died  drunkards— some  were 
in  prison — some  had  heen  killed  in  drunken  (rays — while  others 
were  steeped  in  poverty  and  degradation '  Then  it  was  that 
his  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  to  that  mysterious  Providence 
which  had  so  strangely  influenced  him  to  leave  his  home,  and 
go  among  strangers — and  which  had  truly  led  him  on  in  a  way 
lie  knew  not. 

As  soon  as  it  hecame  known  to  the  oflicers  of  the  Waslungton 
Temperance  Society  tlu.*,  he  was  in  the  city,  they  waited  on 
liim,  and  insisted  that  he  should  make  a  speech.  It  was  duly 
set  forth  in  the  papers  that  "  John  W.  Oliver,  formerly  of  Balti- 
more, and  late  editor  of  the  New  York  Organ  "  would  deliver 
an  address — and  a  large  audience  was  drawn  together  among 
which  were  many  of  his  old  associates.  He  had  little  confi- 
dence ir  his  powers  as  a  speaker — and  active  as  he  had  heen  in 
the  temperance  movement,  he  had  never  addressed  a  puhlic 
meeting.  It  may  he  supposed,  therefore,  that  he  mounted  the 
rostrum  with  fear  and  tremhling.  The  audience  perceived  his 
embarrassment,  and  gave  him  such  a  round  of  apj)lause  that  he 
was  enal)led  to  proceed  with  some  tolerable  degree  of  confidence. 
In  the  latter  part  of  September,  1842,  John  and  Isaac,  while 
at  work  in  their  printing  office,  got  into  a  conversation  about  the 
difllculfies  which  appeared  to  hinder  the  temperance  reform. 
During  this  conversation  it  was  suggested  whether  an  organiza- 
tion of  a  more  permanent  character  could  not  be  formed,  which 


JOHN   W.   OLI  VER,  M.  W.  P. 


200 


should  hind  its  nicmlu-rs  to  total  nlistim-nro,  rlovatf  their  charac- 
ters us  men,  iind  all'ord  luutuiil  avii.<«iunc(;  in  adversity  ur  (hstress. 
Tlu!  es(al»lishnient  of  the  Okdkr  ok  the  Sons  of  Templranck 
was  the  reMili. 

At  the  or^nmiznlion  of  New  York  Division  No.  1,  Septenilx-r 
20,  1S42,  lie  was  elected  R.  S.  hy  his  own  request.  At  the 
fornialioM  of  the  Grand  Division,  Deceniher  10,  1842,  he  was 
chosen  G.  S.  which  olhco  he  tilled  until  Octol)er,  lH4'i,  when 
he  was  elevated  to  the  Chair  of  G.  W.  P.  During^  his  ailminis- 
tration  he  planted  the  Order  in  Baltimore,  and  opened  the  Grand 
Divisions  of  New  Jersey,  ^huyland,  Pennsylvania  and  Connec- 
ticut, in  person.  At  the  organization  of  the  National  Division 
he  was  elected  M.  \V.  P.  hut  declined  the  honor,  juhI  was  then 
elected  M.  W.  S.  which  ollice  he  fdled  fur  two  years.  The 
duties  devolviii",'-  upon  these  stations  at  this  early  stage  of  the 
Order,  were  iunuense — and  it  may  Ix'  safely  said,  they  did  not 
suH'er  in  his  hamls.  Besides  conducting  the  ver}-  extensive  cor- 
respondence of  the  Order,  he  was  constantly  engaged  in  explain- 
ing and  defending  its  principles  through  such  newspapers  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  coiuitry  as  would  give  him  a  lu'aring,  and  in 
writing  to  influential  friends  of  temperance  in  every  direction 
urging  them  to  form  Divisions. 

In  October  1844,  The  New  York  Organ  after  changing  hands 
repeatedly,  became  so  embarrassed  that  the  publisher  could  not 
continue  it.  The  Grand  Division  of  New  York,  feeling  the  im- 
portance of  sustaining  a  journal  devoted  to  the  Order,  took  the 
subject  up — and  after  discussing  many  propositions  for  its  con- 
tinuance, finally  prevailed  on  Mr.  Oliver  to  re-assume  its  publi- 
cation. The  paper  at  that  time  had  run  down  to  about  1,300 
subscribers — nothing  like  a  sufficient  number  to  defray  the  ex- 
pense of  publication. 

In  the  spring  of  184T,  Isaac  having  previously  couuuenced 
business,  the  two  brothers  formed  a  i)artnership  under  the  firm 


300 


JOHN    W.    OLIVER,  M.  W.  P. 


of  Oliver  and  Brother,  which  still  continues — and  by  their  well- 
directed  energy,  their  business  was  greatly  increased.  They 
commenced  the  publication  of  Temperance  Tracts  on  a  large 
scale,  and  we  believe  they  were  tiie  first  who  iiiade  such  an 
enterprise  pay. 

In  DecemLv  •  of  this  year  the  famous  libel  suit  was  tried,  m 
which  the  rumsellers  obtained  a  verdict  against  Mr.  Oliver  of  $250 
and  costs,  amounting  altogether  to  $800.  This  however  proved 
rather  a  thorn  in  the  sides  of  the  grog-dealers,  for  the  friends 
of  Temperance  at  a  large  public  meeting  in  the  Tabernacle 
made  up  $200,  which  they  presented  to  Mr.  Oliver.  He  ohered 
this  sum  as  a  premium  for  the  i)est  Essay  on  the  Evils  of  the 
Liquor  Traffic,  and  this  produced  KitchePs  Celebrated  Appeal, 
very  generally  considered  the  ablest  paper  written  on  the  subject. 

In  1849,  The  Organ  reached  a  weekly  circulation  of  11,000. 
During  that  year  Oliver  and  Brother  issued  nearly  a  million 
Tempcranc  i  tracts  and  papers.  In  January  1850,  from  a  heavy 
increase  of  business,  and  from  other  causes,  they  deemed  it  best 
to  dispose  of  The  Organ,  and  confine  their  attention  exclusively 
to  the  printing  business.  Since  then  they  have  nearly  doubled 
that  part  of  their  business — and  appear  to  be  on  the  high  road 
to  fortune. 

Av,  the  seventh  session  of  the  National  Division,  held  in  Bos 
ton,  June  11,  1850,  Mr.  Oliver  was  elected  M.  W.  P. 

The  two  brother's  have  recently  erected  and  fitted  up  two 
fine  dwellings  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  at  a  cost  of  $20,000 
— which  they  now  occupy. 

The  contrast  between  the  successful  employing  Printer  and 
devoted  friend  of  Temperance  of  1850,  and  the  pedestrian,  pack 
in  hand,  runi-ing  away  from  his  bad  habits  in  1835,  furnishes  a 
most  interesting  and  useful  lesson.  It  is  a  striking  example  of 
what  may  be  accomplished  by  Decision,  Perseverance,  In- 
dustry and  Tempi;rance. 


THE   DUTY   OF   TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


BY     N.     WIL80N,P.G.W.   P. 

This  subject  suggests  several  very  important,  serious  .md 
deeply  interesting  questions,  into  the  full  merits  of  all  which, 
without  occupying  too  much  space  in  your  contemplated 
volume,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  examine. 

Man  was  created  upright  and  in  the  image  of  his  Maker  and 
endowed  with  a  capacity  to  reflect  and  reason,  and  with  these 
faculties  in  active  natural  exercise,  our  duty,  or  that  which  is 
the  same  thing,  our  obligations,  to  our  Creator,  to  society  and 
to  our  fellow-man,  will,  at  once,  become  apparent  and  under 
proper  influences,  develope  and  ripen,  into  the  most  beautiful 
and  cheering  results. 

But,  it  is  the  ten  thousand  malign  influences,  the  invention  of 
that  same  old  serpent,  that  so  sadly  and  fatally  imposed  upon 
the  credulity,  of  mother  Eve,  in  the  first  Eden,  to  contend 
against  which,  we  need  more  than  the  wisdom  of  Solomon  and 
the  patience  of  Job,  and  over  which  to  be  completely  successful, 
we  need,  and  nuist  have  the  aid  and  blessing  of  the  Great  Patri- 
arch above.  And  again,  in  the  volume  of  inspiration,  it  is  writ- 
ten, "  The  seed  of  woman  shall  bruise  the  serpent's  head."  A 
glorious  promise  and  full  of  hope.  With  emphasis,  this,  then, 
we  ask,  what  is  our  duty,  as  Temperance  men  1 


302 


THE    DUTY    OF    TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


This  question  is  intimatel}',  yea,  inseparably  connected  with 
all  the  great  interests  of  society,  pecuniary,  social,  political, 
moral  and  religious. 

And  it  is  of  the  highest  consequence,  that  the  literature  of 
our  country  should  everywhere  breathe  an  atmosphere,  the 
farthest  possible  removed  from  the  fumes  of  alcohol.  Heaven 
forbid,  that  any  altar,  hereafter  reared  by  genius  in  any  of  the 
varied  departments  of  learning,  science,  or  art,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  this  boasted  land  of  liberty,  should  be 
dedicated  to  Bacchus,  or  that  worshippers  of  the  heathen  wine- 
god  should  be  found  in  free  America. 

That  such  have  ^isted  is  a  sad  reality,  painful  to  contem- 
plate. To  prevent  such  in  future  and  to  reclaim  their  unfortu- 
nate devotees  is  the  urgent,  imperious  duty  of  Temperance  men. 

Here,  to  be  sure,  another  grave  question  presents  itself,  requir- 
ing solution.  How  can  it  he  done  ?  Could  this  question  be 
answered  with  entire  satisfaction,  I  should  almost  be  tempted  to 
ey^laim  with  the  good  Simeon  of  old,  it  is  enough,  "  now  lettest 
thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,"  &c.  Our  answer  is,  mucky 
very  much  can  be  done  by  individual  and  united  effort — by  con- 
tinued and  unwearied  energy  in  any  and  every  possible  way, 
that  affection  and  kindness,  interest  and  ingenuity  can  suggest, 
and  let  the  effort  be  commensurate  with  the  evil  to  be  encoun- 
tered and  the  difficulties  and  obstacles  in  the  way  of  its  success- 
ful accomplishment.  Let  the  voice  of  warning,  of  entreaty, 
of  expostulation,  of  stirring,  but  kind  rebuke  be  heard  and 
repeated  not  only  to  the  tempted,  but  to  the  tempter.  Let  each 
be  made  to  see  and  feel  his  situation  and  if  need  be  and  when 
milder  means  have  failed,  each  should  be  compelled  to  desist, 
by  such  other  means,  as  every  intelligent  moral  people  will  be 
sure  to  apply,  as  the  emergency  may  require. 

The  character  of  the  obstacles  and  of  the  individuals  impli- 


THE    DUTY    OF    TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


303 


pli- 


cated tk'seive  careful  and  sober  considerution.  "  If  words,  or 
grass  will  do,"  use  either  or  both,  as  the  occasion  may  require ; 
but,  if  neither  will  answer,  "  then  pelt,"  the  offender,  "  with 
stones."  But,  let  nie  not  be  misunderstood  on  this  point,  "  The 
stones  ^^  are  designed  ff^-  the  Tempter,  not  the  Tempted. 

The  Rev.  T.  P.  Hunt  of  Philadelphia,  one  of  the  most  elo- 
quent advocates  of  Temperance  in  our  country,  in  one  of  his 
public  addresses,  remarked,  '  when  I  can  make  an  individual 
engaged  in  this  murderous  and  infamous  business  see  and  feel, 
that  if  there  is  a  being  on  earth,  who  deserves  from  man  a 
halter  and  from  God  a  hell,  it  is  a  rumseller,  then  I  have  some 
hope  of  his  abandoning  the  business  without  legal  coercion  and 
I  have  no  hope  until  then." 

Such,  in  fact,  has  been  my  own  observation  and  experience 
on  this  subject,  that,  I  am  constrained  to  believe,  the  dealer  in 
intoxicating  drinks,  of  the  present  day,  can,  in  no  way,  be 
restrained,  so  long  as  "  money  "  can  be  made  out  of  it,  unless, 
he  is  driven  from  the  traffic.  Yes — driven.  Drive  him  by  kind- 
ness, by  arguuient,  by  nersuasion,  by  setting  before  him  the  nature 
and  woeful  consequences  of  his  avocation,  if  you  can — but — and 
if  need  be,  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  energetically  and 
perseveringly  applied.     Half-way  measures  are  of  no  avail. 

The  individual  engaged  in  such  business  should  be  made  to 
understand  the  length,  depth,  breadth  and  t-uormity  of  his  busi- 
ness. Mere  dollars  and  cents  are  nothing.  Character,  life, 
merit,  temporal  and  eternal  destiny  are  at  stake.  The  Judg- 
ment Day  only  can  reveal  the  true  nature,  enormity  and  extent 
of  such  traffic.  But,  it  will  be  written  out  there  by  the  peEi  of 
the  Almighty  and  it  will  be  read  there  in  the  presence  of  the 
assembled  universe. 

And  here,  I  frankly  admit,  that,  I  have  witnessed  so  many 
spectacles  of  human   misery,  of  blasted    hopes   and   blighted, 


304 


THE    DUTY   OF    TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


mined  prospects  and  often,  wliere  liope  seemed  brightest — and 
seen  and  known  so  much  of  the  heartless,  meaningless  promises 
of  the  lumseller,  and  have  been  so  long-  toihng  and  making 
sacrifices  for  the  suppression  of  this  terrible  evil,  that,  I  may  be 
omewhat  impatient  for  a  speedy  triumph. 

It  may  be  very  easy,  for  those,  who  are  too  indifferent,  or  too 
lazy,  or  selfish  to  toil  for  tlie  good  of  others,  to  preach  patience, 
but,  circumstances  may  occur,  when,  forbearance  ceases  to  be  a 
virtue  and  it  is  equally  true,  that,  those  who  feel  and  truly  feel 
are  also  equally  ready  to  act. 

Can  one  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  or  on  the  edge  of 
a  mighty  cataract,  over  which  to  step  or  plunge,  is  inevitable 
death,  and  see  his  friends  and  neighbors,  or  even  strangers  con- 
stantly approaching  and  never  lift  the  w\arning  voice,  or  raise  an 
arm  to  save  ?  We  see  them  take  the  fearful  plunge — tho  broken 
rocks  and  the  boiling  vortex  have  crushed  and  swallowed  up 
many — others  are  nearing  it — and  can  we  stand  idle  spectators 
of  such  a  scene  1  Something  must  be  done  and  somebody  must 
do  it. 

Varied  and  multiplied  have  been  the  efforts  to  suppress  this 
monster  vice.  The  pledge  of  aljstinence  from  distilled  liquors 
did  much,  "  The  Total  Abstinence  Pledge  "  did  more,  and  that 
movement,  wiiich  took  for  its  title,  the  name  of  the  Father  of 
his  Country  and  without  sullying  it,  did  yet  more  and  a  proud 
day  was  that  for  America.  But,  time  rolled  on  and  even  this 
wonderful  agency  lost  its  magic  power.  The  tide  of  sympathy 
had  reached  its  full  ffow  and  had  already  begun  to  ebb.  The 
various  eras  had,  one  after  anotlier,  spent  their  vitality  and 
energy  and  still  the  pestilence  riiged  on.  Philanthropists  began 
to  look  and  wonder  and  stare  each  other  in  the  face  and  with 
restless  anxiety  ask  each  other,  what  shall  be  done  7  "  Bj 
whom  .«Uall  we  go  up?" 


THE   DUTY   OF    TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


305 


At  this  crisis,  sprung  into  being-  the  noble  Order  of  the  Sons 
of  Tempernnce  and  with  its  tri-colored  flag  unfurled  to  tlie 
breeze,  with  the  inspiring  motto,  "  Love,  Purity  and  Fidelity," 
thousands  rushed  to  its  standard,  and  by  this  new  agency  thou- 
sands of  hearts  have  been  made  glad,  and  the  tear  of  sorrow 
dried  from  many  a  weeping  eye.  This  Order  has  indeed  estab- 
lished "  A  City  of  Refuge  "  and  proclaimed  a  year  of  jubilee, 
and  richly  does  it  deserve  the  gratitude,  encouragement  and 
approbation  of  the  community. 

But,  alas,  powerful  and  successful  as  V>as  proved  this  new 
agency — the  great  work  is  not  accomplished.  Much,  very 
much  yet  remains  to  be  done.  The  demon  of  intemperance 
still  stalks  unrestrained  through  many  of  the  fairest  portions  of 
this  beautiful  land.  The  bitter  tear  still  flows — hearts  once 
glowing  with  love  and  joy  are  broken — the  mother  weeps  and 
sighs — the  fond  and  doting  wife  mourns  and  pines  in  secret, 
sickness  follows,  and  the  king  of  terrors  is  welcomed  to  give  re- 
lief to  that  sorrow,  the  living  cannot  bear. 

And  must  it  be  thus'?  Can  nothing  more  be  done?  Duty 
still  points  ^^ onward  and  upward''^  and  in  la  iguage  not  to  be 
misunderstood,  bids  us  "  hope  on,  hope  ever." 

History  informs  us,  that,  the  father  of  the  young  Hannibal 
required  of  liis  son  a  solemn  vow  of  eternal  enmity  to  the 
Romans,  which  he  seems  to  have  kept  and  regarded  as  even 
more  sacred  than  his  life.  Success  attended  him  on  every  hand 
and  many  and  brilliant  were  his  victories.  But,  Hannibal  was 
finally  forced  to  surrender — not  conquered  by  Rome,  for  Rome, 
with  all  her  power  and  her  hosts  of  valiant  warriors  and  urged 
on  by  the  brave  Scipio,  could  never  have  vanquished  Hannibal, 
had  the  Carthegenian  Senate  sustained  their  noble  general  and 
sent  him  the  men  and  supplies  demanded — sustained  as  he  should 
have  been,  tiie  Roman  Eagle  must  have  trailed  in  the  dust. 


*     3J 


306 


THE    DUTY    OF    TEMPERANCE    MEN. 


If  wise,  we  may  hence  learn  an  instructive  and  salutary 
lesson. 

Let  temperance  men  sustain  each  other,  sustain  their  friends — 
men  and  means  should  never  be  wanting  to  carry  on  this  holy 
war. 

We  may  properly  and  honestly  differ  in  our  views  and  plans 
of  accomplishing-  the  great  object,  but,  if  sincere  and  true,  every 
minor  consideration  will  be  wained,  and  common  danger  and  a 
common  foe  will  concentrate  and  combine  our  efforts,  and  every 
reasonable  sacrifice  required  will  be  made  with  cheerfulness  and 
alacrity. 

None  dare  deny  the  justness  of  our  cause,  or  that  our  object 
js  noble  and  praiseworthy.  Heaven  has  smiled  upon  us — good 
men  have  approbated — we  are  surcy  that  we  are  right — let  us 
then  "  go-ahead.^^ 

I  have  time  only,  in  this  communication,  to  speak  of  one 
other  point  and  that  is,  the  duty  of  Temperance  men  to  the 
young  men  of  our  country.  Our  young  men  must  early  take 
"  the  Fow,"  and  swear  upon  their  country's  altar  eternal  enmity 
to  "  the  common  foe  of  all  mankind."  Our  youth  must  be 
trained  to  temperance.  But,  with  whom  shall  their  early  train- 
ing begin  1  We  answer,  with  the  mother.  It  is  her  prerogative, 
her  duty,  her  pleasure. 

Bonaparte  once  asked  the  celebrated  Madam  De  Stael,  in 
what  manner  he  could  best  promote  the  happiness  of  the  French 
nation.  "  Instruct  the  mothers  of  the  French  People,"  was 
her  noble  reply.  And  it  was  a  noble  sentiment,  replete  with 
political  wisdom. 

By  one  of  the  laws  of  the  famous  Spartan  Law-giver,  the 
great  Lycurgus,  the  infants  of  Sparta  were  trained  for  the  State 
by  their  mothers,  and  these  were  the  children,  numbering  only 
six  thousand,  who  with  the  brave  Leonidas  stood  in  the  Pass  of 


THE   DUTY   OF   TEMPERANCE   MEN. 


307 


Thermopylee  and  turned  back  and  conquered  Xerxes  with  hw 
two  and  one-half  milHons  of  trained  Persian  Soldiers. 

The  influence  of  the  educated  mother,  who  has  right  views 
upon  this  great  subject — (and  every  woman  should  have,  as  she 
values  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of  her  offspring,)  is  beyond 
human  calculation.  Let  the  youthful,  and  buoyant  impulses 
beat  high  for  Temperance,  and  may  their  young  blood  never  bt» 
poisoned  by  the  use  of  intoxicating  beverages. 

To  our  young  men,  then,  let  our  efforts  be  faithfully  and  per- 
severingly  directed — Humanity  demands  it — Love  for  our  com- 
mon country,  for  our  own  fire-sides  require  it — Our  holy  Religion, 
and  the  obligations  we  are  under  to  the  Supreme  Ruler  of  the 
Universe  enjoin  it  as  an  imperious  Duty. 

Under  such  influences,  and  urged  on  by  high  and  holy 
motives  to  do  good,  the  coming  generation  will  be  safe — our 
country  will  be  safe,  and  W3,  with  justifiable  pride,  and  eleva- 
ted pleasure,  may  point  to  such  and  exclaim — "  These  are  my 
jewels .'" 


#% 


THE    SPOILER. 

BT    MRS.    SIOOURNET. 

Parent  ! — who  w^ith  speechless  feeling, 

O'er  thy  cradled  treasures  bent, 
Every  year  new  claims  revealing, 

Yet  thy  wealth  of  love  unspent — 
Hast  thou  seen  that  blossom  blighted 

By  a  drear  untimely  frost? 
All  thy  labor  unrequited? 

Every  glorious  promise  lost? 


Wife  ! — with  agony  unspoken. 

Shrinking  from  affliction's  rod, 
Is  thy  prop — thine  idol  broken — 

Fondly  trusted — next  to  God  t 
Husband ! — o'er  thy  hope  a  mourner, 

Of  thy  chosen  friend  ashamed, 
Ilast  thou  to  her  burial  borne  her, 

Unrepentant — unreclaimed  1 


THE    SPOILER. 

Child  ! — in  tender  weakness  turning 

To  thy  heaven  appointed  guide, 
Doth  a  lavii-poison  burning, 

Tinge  with  gall  affection's  tide? 
Still  that  orphan  burden  bearing, 

Darker  than  the  grave  can  show, 
Dost  thou  bow  thee  down  despairing. 

To  a  heritage  of  wol 


809 


Country ! — on  thy  sons  depending, 

Strong  in  manhood,    ;right  in  bloom. 
Hast  thou  seen  thy  pride  descending. 

Shrouded  to  the  unbounded  tomb? 
Rise  ! — on  eagle  pinion  soaring — 

Rise  ! — like  one  of  God-like  birth — 
And,  Jehovah's  aid  imploring, 

Sweep  the  spoiler  from  the  earth. 


HON.    HORACE   GREELEY. 


Horace  Greeley  was  born  in  the  town  of  Amherst,  New 
lliimpshire,  on  the  3cl  day  of  February,  1811;  his  father,  who 
th(!n  owned  and  cultivated  a  small  farm  lying  partly  in  Amherst 
and  partly  in  liedford,  N.  H.,  now  hves  in  Western  Pennsylva- 
nia ;  his  mother  also  still  lives.  The  Greeleys  are  of  English 
stock,  and  had  been  for  several  years  settled  in  this  country 
rnaiuly  in  the  lower  part  of  New  Hampshire,  where  they  were 
generally  poor  farmers,  though  there  is  a  branch  of  the  family 
seUled  in  Maine,  descended  from  a  brother  of  the  common 
ancestors  of  the  New  Hampshire  Greeleys,  who  came  out  from 
England  in  the  same  vessel  with  the  other.  As  long  ago  as 
1740,  the  New  Hampshire  branch  was  settled  in  Salisbury, 
N.  H.  The  mother  of  Horace  was,  before  marriage,  Mary  Wood- 
burn,  of  Londonderry,  N.  H.,  all  whose  ancestors,  (Woodburns, 
Clarks,  &c.,)  w^re  Scotch-Irish,  lansplanted  from  Scotland  into 
Ireland  somo  centuries  ago,  Presb  2rians  in  faith,  and  provided 
with  wild  lands  in  New  Hampsh.  ,  y  William  HL,  for  their 
valor  and  devotion  to  the  Protestant  cause  displayed  by  them  in 
th(i  desperate  defence  of  Londonderry,  Ireland,  against  the  Cath- 
olic Irish,  fighting  for  King  James  II.  The  town  of  Londonderry, 
N.  H.,  was  granted  to  these  defenders  of  old  Londonderry,  and  a 
tjact  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  acres  allotted  to  John  Wood- 


• 


V 


1 

\ 

"< 

HON. 

H'^RACE    GRKELKY 

811 

Durn,  ancestor  of  Mary,  SL'ltlcd  by 

him  in  17-1 

-2,  and 

ever  since 

owned  and  cullivaU-il 

by  biin  and 

lis  niahi  dose 

mulanfs 

.     Its 

pre- 

sent  possessor  is  John 

Wooilburn, 

youngest  surviving 

broth 

er  of 

,/ 


Mrs.  Greeley. 

Horace  is  the  oldest  of  five  surviving  children  of  Zaccheus  and 
Mary  Greeley  ;  two  having  died  before  his  birth.     He  possessed 
from   infancy   a   remarkable  facility  of   acquiring  such   know- 
ledge as  taxed  the  faculties  of  perception  and  memory  only,  hav- 
ing learned,  with  scanty  and  fitful  instruction,  to  read  well  in 
his  fourth,  and  to  spell  excellently  before  he  had  completed  his 
fifth  year.     A  habit  of  reading  equally  well  from  a  book  with 
one  end  or  the  other  toward  him — insensibly  acquired  by  learn- 
ing to  read  from  a  book  lying  on  his  mother's  knee  while  she 
was  engaged  in  work,  and  he  standing  by  her  side,  was  a  subject 
of  much  crude  wonder  during  his  infantile  years,  and  gave  coun- 
tenance to  many  neighborhood  tales  of  marvelous  proficiency 
on  his  part,  which  have  not  yet  faded  from  the  fireside  gossip 
of  the   towns   in  which   his   earliest  years  were   passed.      His 
faculty  of  spelling  correctly  (through  the  tenacity  of  his  memory 
merely,)  placed  him  at  the  liead  of  the  '  first  class,'  while  attend- 
ing school  from  his  grandfatlun-  Woodburn's,  when  but  four  and 
five  ytars  old,  over  the  heads  of  pupils  of  from  fifteen  to  twen- 
ty-odd  years,    and  as  he  took  part   in  the  evening   'spelling 
matches,'  requiring  to  be  aroused  when  his  turn  came  to  spell,  it 
was  currently  reported   that   he  spelled  just  as  well  asleep  as 
awake.     His  facility  of  learning  and  remembering  songs,  recita- 
tions, &c.,  prolonged  the  wonder  for  a  year  or  two,  when,  (being 
still  too  small  to  learn  to  write,)  he  was  set  to  studying  grammar, 
and  the  bubble  burst  at  once.     Here  simple  tenacity  of  memory 
would  not  suffice,  and  his  infantile  progress  was  slow  enough. 
The  rudiments  of  arithmetic,  how^ever,  he  found  very  easy  of 
acquirement,  and  fancied  that  he  might  have  attained  distinction 


312 


HON.    HORACE    GRKKLKY. 


V* 


f- 


in  iiiiiilu'iuatifs,  had  opportunity  scrvt'd.  But  at  sevon  years  of 
Jifj^e  he  was  called  from  school  to  labor  on  his  father's  farm,  and 
has  never  since  devoted  u  summer  day  to  study,  except  a  very 
few  rainy  ones.  He  continued  to  attend  in  winter  for  the  most 
part  xmtil  fourteen,  hut  the  terms  were  then  much  shorter,  and 
the  facilities  for  acjuirement  much  less  than  they  now  are.  He 
never  saw  the  inside  of  any  academy,  seminary,  nor  select  school 
us  a  student. 

When  seven  years  old,  his  father  removed  to  a  larger  farm  in 
Bedford,  which  he  worked,  (on  shares,)  two  years,  returning  to 
his  own  in  1H20.  He  was  soon  after  overwhelmed  with  pecu- 
niary em!»arrassment,  (then  all  but  universal  in  that  region,)  had 
his  property  taken  by  the  ShcrifT,  on  suspicion  of  debt ;  (no  one 
having  obtained  a  judgment  against  him,)  and,  leaving  his  family 
well  cared  for,  he  started  westward  in  search  of  another  home. 
He  found  one  m  the  town  of  Westhaven,  Vermont,  near  the 
head  of  Lake  Champlain,  returned  for  his  family  and  removed 
them  thither,  in  January,  1821.  Here  he  lived  till  182G,  devot- 
ing three  years  to  clearing  land,  one  to  farming  on  shares,  and 
one  to  running  a  saw-mill,  aided  in  all  by  his  two  boys,  ranging 
from  nine  to  fifteen  years  of  age.  In  1826,  he  looked  further, 
found  a  home  to  his  mind  in  Erie  county,  Pennsylvania,  return- 
ed for  his  family,  and  removed  thither,  and  there  is  still  his 
home,  with  that  of  a  majority  of  his  children,  now  all  married. 

In  1822,  Horace  who  had  early  shown  a  fondness  for  reading, 
especially  Newspapers,  and  had  resolved  to  be  a  Printer,  went 
to  the  Printing-office  in  Whitehall,  N.  Y.,  and  applied  to  be 
taken  as  an  apprentice,  but  was  rejected  as  too  young  and  feeble. 
In  182G,  he  applied  at  the  office  of  the  Northern  Spectator,  in 
Poullney,  Vermont,  and  was  accepted.  Here  he  remained  un- 
(il  June,  1830,  when  the  paper  stopped^  the  business  was  discon- 
tinued, and  he  started  westward  to  his  f  iher's,  which  he  had 


44i 


HON.    HORACE    GREELEY. 


313 


twice  already  visited.  He  remained  in  that  vicinity,  workinjj  at 
intervals  at  Jamestown,  N.  Y.,  LoUi,  N.  Y.,  and  Erie,  Pa.,  and 
occasionally  on  his  father's  farm,  until  August  of  the  following 
year,  when,  finding  no  more  work  at  his  trade,  he  left  for  New 
York,  landing  from  a  tow-boat,  at  the  foot  of  Broad-street,  on 
the  iHth  of  that  month,  very  poorly  clad,  with  few  dollars;  not 
yet  of  Jige,  and  knowing  no  one  within  two  hundred  miles. 
His  youth,  inexperience,  and  raw  appearance,  caused  him  to  be 
suspected  and  challenged  as  a  runaway  apprentice,  but  l)y  per- 
severing efforts  he  fintdly  found  work  as  a  journeyman,  and  was 
employed  in  various  ofiices,  with  occasional  intervals  of  nothing 
to  do,  for  the  next  eighteen  months.  Early  in  1833,  he,  in  con- 
nection with  another  yovmg  Primer,  Francis  V.  Story,  obtained 
work,  which  justified  them  in  running  in  debt  for  the  materials 
of  a  small  Job  and  Newspaper  Printing-office,  with  which  they 
began  to  execute  orders.  In  July  following.  Story  was  drown- 
ed, and  Jonas  Winchester,  a  friend  of  the  family  succeeded  hira 
in  the  business,  which  was  and  continued  to  be  prosperous  and 
extending.  The  next  spring,  (March  22,  1844,)  Greeley  and 
Winchester  commenced  The  Is  tw-YoRKER ;  a  weekly  journal 
of  literature  and  general  intelligence,  of  which  the  project  had 
for  some  tune  been  cherished  by  the  former,  who  became  its 
Editor.  It  had  less  than  a  dozen  subscribers,  at  the  outset,  the 
publishers  being  scarcely  known,  in  the  city  or  out  of  it,  but  it 
gradually  attained  a  circulation  of  more  ihan  nine  thousand 
copies.  It  was  never  profitable,  however,  having  a  great  many 
more  patrons  than  supporters,  and  its  weekly  exactions  were  a 
constant  source  of  anxiety  and  care  to  its  publishers.  Mr.  Win- 
chester retired  from  the  concern  by  agreement  in  1836,  taking 
with  him  what  was  left  of  the  Job  printing,  which  had  hitherto 
sustained  the  paper,  now  mistakenly  deemed  able  to  go  alone ; 
and  his  place  was  successively  taken  by  several  partners,  with 


"t 


fi\H> 


314 


HON.    HORACE    GREELEY. 


no  perceptible  improvement  in  its  business  management  or 
pecuniary  success.  One  after  another  sold  out  or  gave  it  up  as 
a  hopeless  undertaking,  and  finally  it  was  left  on  the  hands  of 
the  Editor  alone.  Meantime  he  had  been  obliged  to  earn  his 
own  livelihood  mainly  outside  of  the  income  of  the  paper,  in 
the  Editorial  conduct  and  pecuniary  sustenance  of  which  most 
of  his  own  time  was  absorbed.  Through  the  ardent  political 
contest  of  the  summer  of  1834,  he  printed,  and  in  good  part 
edited  a  small  Whig  Daily,  entitled  The  Constitution.  Through- 
out the  more  protracted  and  arduous  struggle  of  1838,  he  edited 
a  cheap  Whig  Weekly,  issued  at  Albany,  and  entitled  The 
Jeffersonian.  In  the  campaign  of  1810,  he  edited  and  published 
a  cheap,  widely  circulated  Whig  Weekly,  entitled  The  Log- 
Cabin.  The  first  of  these  was  a  source  of  pecuniary  loss  to 
him.  The  second  paid  him  a  salary ;  the  third,  though  issued 
under  great  disadvantages,  yielded  him  a  moderate  profit ;  so 
that  in  the  spring  of  1841,  after  seven  years  of  severe  labor  and 
rigid  parsimony,  tlie  delinquent  patrons  of  The  New-Yorker  had 
just  about  absorbed  the  little  capital  on  which  that  paper  was 
commenced,  and  his  earnings  and  those  of  his  partners  during 
its  continuance — no  one  having  ever  drawn  out  of  the  concern 
a  dollar  more  than  he  had  put  in,  and  very  rarely  that  much. 
The  fruits  of  all  this  toil  and  e.;perience  was  a  conviction  of  the 
superiority  of  Cash  Payment,  so  far  at  least  as  Newspapers  are 
concerned. 

In  the  spring  of  1841,  Mr.  Greeley,  then  without  a  partner, 
and  with  very  mouerate  means,  resolved  to  try  the  experiment 
of  a  cheap  Whig  daily,  devoted  to  the  interests  of  Labor  as  he 
understood  them,  to  liberal  sontiments  and  generc  is  purposes, 
to  Temperance  in  all  tilings,  to  inflexible  Morality,  and  to  the 
exposition  and  defence  of  the  principles  of  a  ])eneficent  and  wise 
National  Policv.     The  first  No.  was  issued  on  the  lOth  of  April, 


HON.    HORACE    GREELEY. 


315 


, 


though  the  death  of  General  Harrison,  and  the  consequent  fore- 
boding's of  disaster  among  those  who  had  struggled  to  elect  him, 
had  intervened  since  the  enterprise  was  determined  on  to  mar  its 
prospects  most  seriously.  The  New  York  Tribune  appeared 
on  the  day  observed  in  our  city  as  one  of  public  mourning  for  the 
President's  death.  It  had  few  subscribers  to  start  with,  and  not 
many  friends,  while  its  financial  reserve  was  quite  limited.  The 
first  week's  current  expenses  were  over  five  hundred  dollars  ;  its 
receipts  less  than  one  hundred.  But  the  prospect  gradually 
brightened  ;  a  most  efficient  and  admirable  business-partner  soon 
after  offered  to  embark  in  the  concern,  and  was  accepted,  to  the 
immediate  liberation  of  the  editor  from  a  chafing  burthen  of  pe- 
cuniary anxieties  and  business  cares  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  first 
year  the  paper  had  over  Ten  Thousand  daily  subscribers  and 
purchasers,  and  was  fully  payinj  its  way.  It  has  never  since 
done  worse,  and  its  patronage  has  gradually  increased  to  seven- 
teen thousand  daily,  beside  a  weekly  edition  of  over  thirty  thou- 
sand copies,  and  a  semi-weekly,  California,  &c.,  amounting  to 
several  thousands  more.  Probably  no  other  journal  issued  in 
America  is  more  widely  diffused  or  exerts  a  more  decided  influ- 
ence on  public  sentiment  and  public  policy.  And  the  daily  is 
now  the  cheapest  sheet,  considering  its  size  and  the  amount  of 
reading,  that  is  issued  in  the  world. 

On  the  1st  of  January,  1825,  our  subject,  then  not  quite  four- 
teen years  of  age,  concluded,  on  a  review  of  matters  in  general, 
that  he  would  drink  no  more  Ardent  Spirits,  and  has  ever  since 
adhered  to  that  resolution.  He  did  not  know  when  he  made 
the  resolve  that  any  Temperance  Society  existed,  nor  was  he 
acquainted  with  an  individual  who  utterly  rejected  the  '  Spark- 
ling bowl.'  Liquor  had  always  been  free  in  his  father's  house, 
and  no  one  made  (irunk  by  it.  Still,  he  concluded  to  do  with- 
out it,  and,  except  a  little  taken  as  medicine  when  he  had  the 


i 


316 


HON.    HORACE    GREELEY. 


fever  and  ague  soon  after,  and  as  much  more  turned  down  his 
throat  at  a  sheep-ue.shing  soon  after  by  three  or  four  friends  of 
'  The  Largest  Liberty '  who  had  heard  of  his  resolve  not  to 
dn  ',  and  were  disgusted  by  its  absurdity,  he  has  imbibed  no 
alcoiiolic  potation  and  desired  none.  And  he  now  beheves  that 
he  has  been  enabled  to  endure  an  amount  of  protracted  mental 
labor,  physical  exposure,  late  hours,  confinement  to  a  sitting 
posture,  &c.  which  must  in  all  probability  have  cut  short  his 
life  ere  this,  had  he  been  addicted  to  '  moderate '  drinking. 

In  the  winter  of  1840-1  he  devoted  some  time  to  the  consid- 
eration of  pauperism,  its  causes,  progress,  goal,  and  the  various 
plans  suggested  for  its  counteraction.  The  result  was  a  pro- 
found conviction  (from  which  he  has  not  since  swerved)  that  a 
radical  reform  in  the  social  relations  of  mankind  is  essential  and 
inevitable.  The  plan  which  he  was  led  to  believe  most  practi- 
cable and  beneficent  is  substantially  that  of  united  households 
and  Combined  Efl^orts  in  industry  and  art  first  proposed  by 
Charles  Fourier,  though  many  of  the  speculations  of  that  bril- 
liant genius  with  regard  to  theology,  cosmogony,  psychology, 
&c.  are  not  accepted  by  him.  But  the  great  practical  idea  of 
Co-operation  in  life  and  industry,  so  as  to  heat,  light,  supply 
with  water,  and  ventilate  thoroughly  the  dwellings  of  a  hun- 
dred families  at  one-fourth  the  cost  of  eflfecting  the  same  end 
wretchedly,  or  not  at  all,  under  our  present  system  of  isolation 
and  antagonism,  he  heartily  accepts  and  labors  to  con? mend, 
hoping  to  see  the  day  when  the  same  commodious  and  magnifi- 
cent edifice  shall  afford  separate  and  secluded  homes  for  rich 
and  poor  at  a  cost  greatly  less  than  the  present;  when  the 
arable  earth  shall  no  longer  be  cut  up  and  covered  over  by  con- 
tinually exacting  fences,  but  laid  off  into  fields  of  a  mile  if 
not  miles  square,  cultivated  in  good  part  by  machinery,  securing 
an  inunense  economy  of  Labor  and  a  vast  increase  of  Produc- 


HON.    HORACE    GREELEY. 


317 


tion,  while  Schools  far  superior  to  the  present  shall  be  found 
under  the  very  roof  which  shelters  the  children  needing  their 
inculcations,  with  ample  libraries,  apparatus,  reading-rooms, 
halls  for  devotion.  Social  Intercourse,  Festivity,  &c.  &c.  Such 
are  among  the  outward  and  physical  manifestations  of  '  the 
good  time  coming '  which  The  Tribune  anticipates,  awaits  and 
strives  to  secure. 

Mr.  Greeley  was  married  on  the  5th  of  July,  1836,  to  Mary 
Young  Cheney  of  Litchfield,  Conn.,  then  a  teacher  .in  Warren- 
ton,  N.  C.  Five  children  have  been  born  to  them,  of  whom 
but  one,  a  daughter  born  in  November,  1848,  survives.  An 
idolized  son  (Arthur  Young)  was  swept  off  by  the  Cholera, 
July  12th,  1849,  aged  five  and  one-fourth  years.  The  others 
died  in  infancy ;  the  eldest  six  months  old.  The  father,  now 
thirty-nine  years  old,  is  of  pale  complexion,  li^hi  hair,  half 
bald,  stooping  in  gait,  and  of  medium  height  and  size,  though 
formerly  quite  slender.  He  was  chosen  in  1848  to  fill  a  va- 
cancy in  the  XXXth  Congress,  and  served  through  the  short 
session  preceding  Gen.  Taylor's  inauguration.  Though  always 
deeply  interested  in  public  affairs,  he  was  at  no  other  time,  a 
candidate  for  any  political  station  of  consequence. 


mmmmmmmmm 


JOHN    H.    W.    HAWKINS 


This  distinguished  laborer  in  the  cause  of  Temperance,  was 
born  in  the  city  of  Baltimore,  State  of  Maryland,  September 
28th,  1797 ;  he  was  the  son  of  a  pious  father,  whose  death 
occurred  when  his  son,  the  subject  of  the  following  remarks,  was 
but  14  years  of  age,  his  mother  being  poor,  and  left  with  a  large 
number  of  children,  and  John  being  the  oldest  of  the  male  chil- 
dren, he  was  bound  by  the  Orphans'  Court  to  the  trade  of  a  hat- 
ter, at  which  trade  he  served  until  he  was  21  years  of  age.  It 
was  at  this  early  age  he  was  thrown  into  the  worst  of  associ- 
ations ;  he  began  thus  early  in  life  to  accustom  himself  to  the 
habitual  use  of  intoxicating  drinks — the  habit  growing  stronger 
and  stronger  until  he  became  a  periodical  drunkard.  When  22 
years  of  age,  he  left  his  native  city  and  wandiTed  to  the  western 
country  ;  he  at  length  reached  the  State  of  Kentucky — this  was 
in  the  year  1819,  he  took  up  his  residence  in  the  village  of  Bed- 
ford, county  of  Henry,  where  he  ren.nined  about  three  years ;  it 
was  during  his  residence  in  the  above  State  that  he  became  a 
confirmed  drunkard.  Returning  lo  his  native  home,  he  saw  the 
necessity  of  restraining  himself,  being  under  the  eye  of  his  pious 
mother.  Siiortly  after  his  return  home,  he  was  married  to  a  de- 
votedly pious  young  lady,  by  the  name  of  Rachel  Thompson, 
by  whom  he  had  six  children,  three  of  whom  are  now  living, 
viz  :  William,  Elizabeth  and  Hannah,  the  last  named,  the  Tem- 


h 


Tins  clist 
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Init  14  years 
number  of  c 
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and  stronger 
years  of  ago, 
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in  the  year  1 
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by  whom  he 
viz  :  William 


# 


• 


• 


1 


JOHN    II.    W.    HAWKINS. 


819 


porance  world  will  at  once  recognize  .»,-  the  devoted  child  who, 
under  God,  was  the  instrument  of  h'^    'oal  reformation,  which 
took  place  in  Baltimore  on  the  15th  J .    ??,  1H40.     The  ever  me- 
morable Washington  Temperance  Society  being  formed  of  many 
of  his  old  associates,  he  resolved  at  once  to  join  them,  and  the 
moment  that  he  did  so,  he  found  favor  in  the  sight  of  God .  xnd 
his  fellow-men.     In  the  month  of  March  following  the  forma- 
tion of  the  above  society,  the  friends  of  temperance  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  hearing  of  this  extraordinary  movement,  which 
then  numberc      ""oro  than  a  thousand  reformed  drunkards,  re- 
solved to  havf  io\      of  them  come  to  the  city  of  New  York  and 
hold  temp'ic'Cvi  .Meetings,  negociatioj.s  were   entered  into  at 
once  for    ;  u  -If    ation,  accordingly  five  proceeded  to  (he  city  of 
New  Yoriv — tmiongst  them  was  the    subject    of  our   remarks. 
After  la'    ,  iT;  -.vith  his  companions  for  some  time  in  the  city  of 
New  York  the  friends  of  the  cause  in  the  city  of  Boston,  hearing  of 
their  wonderful  success  in  the  reformation  of  the  most  abandon- 
ed drunkards,  resolved  to  have  some  of  them  pay  the  city  of  Bos- 
ton a  visit ;  accordingly  Mr.  Hawkins  and  William  E.  Wright 
went  on,  and  held  many  interesting  meetings,  to  which  thou- 
sands flocked,  and  brought  with  them  their  unfortunate  friends, 
wiiC  signed  the  pledge,  and  reformed  their  lives.     The  great 
mass  meeting  held  in  Old  Fanenil  Hall,  the  Cradle  of  Liberty, 
will  long  be  remembered ;  when  the  two  sj)cakers  entered,  the 
Old  Cradle  rocked  with  the  greatest  burst  of  welcome  that  was 
ever  known  in  the  city  of  Boston.     When  they  took  their  seats 
on  the  stand  they  were  eyed  closely  by  the  vast  multitude  with 
astonishment;  after  the  meeting  was  opened  with  prayer,  Mr. 
Hawkins  was  introduced  to  the  audience  by  that  indefatigable 
philanthropist.  Deacon  Moses  Grant ;  it  may  be  well  for  us  at 
this  point  of  our  narrative,  to  give  the  reader  some  of  his  re- 
marks upon  that  memorable  occasion. 


u 


1  ' 

(  : 


320 


JOHN    H.    W.    HAWKINS. 


"  When  I  compare,"  said  he,  "  the  past  with  the  present ; 
my  days  of  intemperance  with  my  present  peace  and  sobriety  ; 
my  past  degradation  with  my  present  position  in  this  Hall — the 
Cradle  of  Liberty — I  am  overwhelmed.  It  seems  to  me  Holy 
ground.  I  never  expected  to  see  this  Hall.  I  had  heard  of  it 
in  boyhood.  '  Twas  here  that  Otis  and  the  elder  Adams  argued 
the  principles  of  American  Independence,  and  we  now  meet 
here  to  declare  ourselves  free  and  independent ;  to  make  a 
second  Declaration — not  quite  so  lengthy  as  the  old  one,  but  it 
promises  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  Our  fore- 
fathers pledged  their  lives  and  fortunes  and  sacred  honors ;  we, 
too,  will  pledge  our  honor,  our  life,  but  our  fortunes  have  gone 
for  rum ! " 

The  speech  of  which  the  above  is  only  a  part,  produced  the 
most  happy  results,  and  from  this  time  the  cause  began  to  ad- 
vance with  the  most  astonishing  results,  and  no\v  while  we  write 
tliis  most  imperfect  sketch,  the  subject  of  our  remark  is  still  la- 
boring with  unexampled  perseverance  in  the  great  cause  which 
has  blessed  millions  of  our  fellow  beings. 

Mr.  Hawkins  by  his  intemperance,  which  is  a  natural  conse- 
quence, neglected  the  education  of  his  children,  and  in  the  year 
1841,  he  moved  his  family  to  the  city  of  Boston,  their  present 
place  of  residence,  he  at  once  placed  his  three  children  to  school 
at  the  Wesleyan  Academy,  North  Wilbraham,  Mass.,  his  son 
entered  and  graduated  at  the  "Wesleyan  University,  Middletown, 
Connecticut,  he  then  entered  the  Theological  Seminary  near 
Alexandria,  Va.,  which  is  under  the  patronage  of  the  Episcopal 
Church,  and  is  now  preparing  himself  for  the  ministry  in  said 
Church,  upon  which  duties  he  will  enter  in  about  one  year  from 
tliis  time.  It  is  indeed  gratifying  to  see  what  the  cause  of  Tem- 
perance has  done,  not  only  for  Mr.  Hawkins,  but  for  thousands 
of  others. 


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